


Paradise Circus

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Blood Magic, F/F, Slavery, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long walk down to the Gallows, and when Bethany hesitates, Athenril is there to give her another option: a business venture a long way away from Kirkwall, way up north where mages grow like weeds. Bethany/Athenril, alternate ending to Act I. Multi-chapter, ongoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to Jillyfae, LadySmaragdina, and everybody else who helped me get this piece up and going again after nearly a year of sitting around my gdocs folder.

It was just another flight of stairs.

That was all Kirkwall really was - another flight to stumble down or drag yourself up - and Bethany found herself wondering, as she stared down at the docks three stories below, if the Gallows had many stairs. Perhaps they would let her live on the ground floor, or up in a tower where she would never have to climb down again. She was tired of stairs. She was tired of stairs, and she was tired of running, and she was just so  _tired_ …

She took a deep breath. It was just another flight of stairs, and one foot in front of the other had always worked in the past. It had been one foot in front of the other since Lothering.

Mother would forgive her.

And she would forgive herself if she had to close her eyes to take that first step, lifting up her foot and letting it fall into the abyss-

"Bethany."

She yelped, eyes shooting open and hand rising to cover her mouth as she turned. That voice-

"Athenril?"

The smuggler leaned against the center divider of the staircase, where crates were hauled up and slid back down daily, with one brow quirked and her arms folded over her chest. Bethany hadn't seen her since Marian had let that boy run off with her shipment, and at the moment, she wasn't exactly somebody Bethany  _wanted_  to see. She didn't need an old employer with a chip on her shoulder here to delay her from what was likely going to be the most important decision of her life.

But the elf was definitely looking at her, and, with a smooth push from the wall, was definitely getting in between Bethany and the docks below. Standing two steps down made made Athenril even smaller, and Bethany wasn't sure if she should loom or join her or just retreat and hope the other woman followed. She ended up simply standing there, fiddling with her cuff and waiting.

And waiting.

Bethany chewed at her lower lip as Athenril's gaze drifted up and down her body, and finally came to rest on her mouth.

"You have your staff, and nothing over your face."

"I- yes. That's true." Her staff didn't look like a mage's staff; it had no skull crowning it, and the blade was long enough to make it look like a polearm. But any other day, she wouldn't have stepped out under the sun hinting at what she was without a scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was a precaution she'd learned early on in Kirkwall - at Athenril's hands.

But there was no point in hiding, and as her cheeks began to heat, she hoped that Athenril wasn't so perceptive that she would figure it all out.

Athenril sighed. "What am I going to do with you?" She held out a hand and beckoned as she climbed the few steps to where Bethany stood. "Come on. We need to talk."

"But I-"

"It's about your sister," she said with absolutely no change in her expression. Her lips remained firm and her gaze level. They had never spent much time together, and Bethany wasn't sure how to read her body language, not like this, not in broad daylight. Marian had kept between them, trying to shield Bethany from the worst of what they did. At the time she had appreciated it. Now she regretted it, because she couldn't tell if Athenril's evenness came from the weight of bad news or in the absence of it.

"Come on," she said, and Bethany felt her heart sink lower. She thought she had reached the bottom days ago, when a templar had come suspiciously close to the stairs up to Gamlen's house and she had checked the date and seen that it had been one month since Marian had left with the expedition. But now, her heart seemed to go down beneath the very stone.

It was a long way down those stairs, and, swallowing, she backed away from them.

"Good girl," Athenril said, and with a jerk of her head led the way towards one of the innumerable back alleys. Bethany followed, mouth dry and throat closed.  _A month_  was what Marian had told her.  _We'll be back in a month, maybe two._  But without Marian and without Varric in Kirkwall, the templars had begun to notice more- and Bethany had wondered about the flow of coin into pockets.

And then she'd found herself at the stairs to the docks, because it would be far better for everybody if the templars didn't drag her kicking and screaming out of the house. If Marian didn't come back- if something had happened to Marian-

Athenril stopped before they reached the next bend in the alley and turned to her, settling one shoulder against the closest wall and crossing her legs at the ankle. "Before she left, your sister came to talk to me. To repair old relations."

"Oh." Bethany lifted a hand to tug at her kerchief, running the fabric between thumb and forefinger out of habit to keep her nerves in check. "I- oh. She didn't tell me. But that's- good?"

"It leaves me with one less potential enemy. I like to think that's good." Her smile was thin, and then banished with a clearing of her throat. "Anyway. She came to me because, if something went wrong with the expedition, she wanted me to take care of you."

 _If something went wrong_. Any remaining color drained from Bethany's face, and she leaned heavily against the opposite wall. "Do you have news, then?"

"No more than you," Athenril said with a shrug.

"Which is to say, none at all." She tugged at her kerchief again, pulling it around until she could fuss with the knot. "What, then?"

"I'm here to take care of you. She said, and I quote, 'If I'm not back in a month, get Bethany out of Kirkwall'."

"Out of-"

"My guess is that her bribe funds are beginning to run out. Especially if you aren't the one managing them. Aveline certainly isn't." She laughed, low and soft, and Bethany scowled. "I'm right, aren't I? Templars coming knocking?"

"Almost. They're getting close." She tugged hard enough that her head bowed forward, then forced her fingers to loosen, not looking up.

"And then I find you, about to take a stroll down to the docks. And you hate ships and fish, and I very much doubt you were going down there to find a quick tumble like your Rivaini friend-"

"Stop."

"I was just going to bribe the templars again on her behalf and have her pay back with interest when she returns with all the gold she's going to find in the Deep Roads. But I think your sister's right, and getting you out of Kirkwall's the best idea."

Athenril's leathers creaked as she pushed away from the wall and crossed the small space between them. Bethany looked up, frown firmly in place and toe tapping.

"So what do you say? We leave the city for a little while, I keep you safe, and nobody ends up in the Gallows, willingly or otherwise."

"I can go to the Gallows if I want to."

"Yes, you can. But your sister would prefer it if you didn't, and I didn't keep the templars off your ass for an entire year to have you turn around and make all that coin next to worthless." She shook her head. "Besides, I have just the project for us."

Bethany pressed herself back more firmly to the wall, staff hard between the stone and her spine. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because when your sister comes home - and she  _will_  come home - she will be very wealthy. She has the damnedest luck. And because," Athenril said, lips quirking, "I've always liked you. A little naive, but you've got a good head on your shoulders. Like I said, I have just the thing. And Kirkwall is absolutely miserable this time of year.

"And I don't think you really want to go to the Gallows," Athenril added.

Bethany bit her lip again, worrying at the already-worried flesh. "I want…" Words failed, and she exhaled shakily, toe switching from tapping to digging into the broken stone beneath her. "I want…"

Athenril said nothing, only rocking back on her heels and waiting, brow quirked and smile fading.

She looked in the direction of the harbor, even though she couldn't see the water and couldn't see the towers further out. Did she really, truly want to live there, for the rest of her life? Once, an escaped apostate from Kinloch Hold had found her father, had come looking for shelter. Bethany hadn't been much older than twelve, but for the night that the woman had stayed, she had kept close and listened to stories. Kinloch hadn't sounded so bad to her then, except that it was full of templars.

But the stories about the Gallows were much darker.

She swallowed. "I want to stop running."

"Don't think of this as running, Bethany," Athenril said as she motioned for Bethany to follow her back out to the main thoroughfare. "Think of this as going into business - and on an adventure. Think of it as an exciting vacation."

 _Vacation_ , she thought with a miserable sort of smile. That was something for nobility. Mother would be so proud.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I just can't imagine that Marian would agree to something like this," Leandra said, wringing her hands in between crossing her arms over her chest. She was still in her finery from a day spent trying to get an audience with the Viscount. She was close, she had said when Bethany walked in the door and Athenril was still out of sight.  _Close, it could be as soon as next week_ , she'd said, and Bethany's throat had gone dry again as she nodded and heard Athenril step up behind her.

 _Bethany_ , she'd said,  _why is she with you? Bethany, why do you have your staff?_

Her staff now rested against the nearby wall, by Athenril, and she kept her eyes fixed on the changes of smalls she stuffed into the sack at her feet, the extra set of robes, a few bits from Lothering she would hate to lose but would hate even more to be without. She hesitated as she reached for her dagger.

Marian had given it to her when they made Gwaren, before they all took ship to Amaranthine and then on to Kirkwall.

She'd flown all the way to Gwaren on a dragon - and yet couldn't say a word, couldn't even tell herself that this was the right decision. She bit her lip and shoved it into the sack, then cinched it tight.

" _Bethany_ , look at me," Leandra said. Bethany could hear the tears edging into her voice and finally looked up, taking a breath to still her own. "You aren't really going, are you?"

"It's not for good, Mother," she said with the greatest smile she could find. For a moment she wondered if she should tell her that it was either this or the Gallows for her, but those words didn't so much catch in her throat as get strangled and drowned in the pit of her stomach. Turning, she hefted her sack up (unbearably, embarrassingly light, but what else did she have to her name aside from family?) and passed it to Athenril, who took it without comment.

 _One foot in front of the other_.

"Oh, let the girl go if she's so determined," Gamlen offered from the other side room, and Bethany winced.

"Gamlen!" Leandra said, turning and glaring towards the door to his room.

"Well, it gives the lot of us more space, and I don't know about  _you_  but I am sick of hearing clanking by the window at night. I'm sure she is, too. Isn't that right, girl?"

Bethany stooped to search for her veil and to begin filling the pouches at her hips with ingredients for poultices. Elegant had taught her how to make a few, and dried elfroot was less expensive and easier to carry than fragile glass bottles.

"I do have a name," Bethany huffed.

"And you've got templars on your arse all day long."

"Gamlen," Leandra said, "if you don't be quiet-"

"Just let her go, Leandra. She's a big girl now. You let her sister go off on her big get-rich-quick scheme."

"Yes, and I stopped Bethany from going because if something happened to the both of them, I-"

"Serah Leandra," Athenril interrupted, pushing away from the wall. "I swear on my honor-"

Gamlen snorted.

"On my honor," Athenril continued with only the slightest faltering, "to keep your daughter safe. I will bring her back."

"And how long are you taking her from me for?" Leandra asked, words clipped. Bethany dared a glance up and saw her chin lifted, shoulders squared. Every inch the Kirkwall lady, she thought as her fingers finally closed on the thin fabric of her veil.

Athenril hummed in the back of her throat, then said, "Hopefully no more than six months. Possibly a year."

"A  _year_!" Bethany exclaimed, straightening up and twisting to stare open-mouthed at Athenril. "You didn't say it could be that long! I thought it would be a few weeks, a month-"

Athenril looked at her placidly. "You," she said, "never asked. Are you coming, or is there another appointment you need to keep…?"

"Bethany?" Leandra asked, looking between them with the same bewildered frown she'd worn for the last twenty minutes. "What's going on?"

Bethany was quite certain that her mother - and especially Gamlen, who likely had his ear pressed up against the wall if he was too lazy to poke his head out the door - didn't need to hear about her almost-trip down the stairs. It would only worry Leandra more, and probably drive Gamlen to commenting that she should have just gotten it all over with, and why had she waited so long to do it and wasted everybody's time and attention and  _money_? So instead she looked to Athenril, helplessly.

Athenril nodded, then looked to Leandra. "Marian didn't tell Bethany about the plan before she left. I didn't mean to spring it on either of you so suddenly. But it would be a good idea if we left soon. She'll get back a little sooner, and we'll avoid any… clanking."

Leandra still didn't look happy, but Bethany supposed that was too much to ask for.  _She_  certainly didn't feel happy.

"It will be fine, mother," she said, and crossed the small room to her, rotting floorboards creaking underneath her feet. She curled her arms around her mother and settled her cheek on her shoulder. "Athenril made sure I was safe for a year. She'll do the same again. And then I'll be back, and Marian will be rich, and you'll have the estate back."

Leandra patted her back, then gave in and dragged her tight against her. "Dear, sweet girl," she breathed against Bethany's hair. "I don't know what I'll do without you-"

"Bother Gamlen? Take up knitting?"

"I'm quite skilled at both, actually, though it's been some time since I've had a set of needles," Leandra said with a small, shaking laugh. She squeezed Bethany again. "Promise me," she said, "that you'll come home safe. Promise me."

"I promise, mother."

Athenril waited, quiet and patient (more than Bethany had ever known her to be in any sort of social encounter), until Leandra let Bethany go with a kiss on her brow and a final squeeze of her hand. Then it was Athenril who lifted her staff, and who led the way to the door. Bethany pulled her veil into place out of habit.

Just another job. She'd lasted a year of them. And this time, there would be no Gallows looming.

* * *

"You didn't tell me a year," Bethany said as Athenril rejoined her from a brief slip into the shadows that led towards Darktown.

"Six months. A year is in a worst case scenario, which I intend to avoid. Come on," she said, brushing by her and moving for the main thoroughfare.

Bethany shook her head. "No."

Athenril slowed, then pivoted on her heel. Her shoulders rose and fell in what Bethany figured was something like a sigh, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "We're leaving tonight. Please."

"No, I want some proof." She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. "That Marian really did send you, and you're not just- not just taking advantage of the situation. The last time Marian mentioned you, she said  _bridges have been burned_."

"They had. We're in the process of building a new one."

"So you're taking me on a job  _somewhere_  for  _a year_ ," she said, slowly, "and you don't have proof my sister's okay with this?"

"Here." Athenril reached into one of the many pouches attached to her light armor, and pulled loose a tightly folded piece of parchment. She held it out to Bethany. "There's your proof. I'm getting you out of the city, and that's all you have to worry about. Now please, come. I have an appointment, and I'm not letting you out of my sight while the ferries are still running."

Bethany looked between her and the paper and hesitated a moment. Athenril's brow lifted, and Bethany let out a long breath, reaching out and taking it. She unfolded it, glancing between Marian's handwriting and Athenril's impassive expression.

_Beth,_

_Hopefully this letter finds you not on the run or with a foot in the Gallows._

_I promise this isn't bullshit. If I'm not back in a month or so, I'm guessing the people I've paid off will start pocketing more than their share per week, so things might get a bit hairy. I would have told you, but then you would have forced your way onto the expedition, and I don't want to risk you down here._

_I know you don't like it. I don't either. But this is the only thing I can think of. Just think about springtime in Lothering, and that time that Carver fell on his face in the mud because Sister Leliana did that thing with her hips._

_Love you always, and I swear I'm coming home,_

_Marian_

If the story about Carver (which had brought a prick of tears to her eyes) hadn't been enough, the little drawing in the corner was. It was a little diagram that their father had taught them once, a web of spells that were made for comfort, lines connecting arcane symbols that Athenril couldn't have known.

She sighed, and folded it.

"Come on," Athenril said.

Bethany tucked the letter away, and followed.

* * *

"So, ah." Bethany looked around the basement they stood in. The tavern above their heads was even seedier than the Hanged Man (and really, since they'd met Varric, the Hanged Man seemed a lot  _less_ seedier than it had when it was just a place nearby in Lowtown) and was by the western wall of the city. Not the nicest place, and not one even Athenril had ordered her to linger in during the last year. Bethany looked to the smuggler now, who was cleaning under her nails with the tip of a small knife. "… What are we doing here?"

"Waiting," Athenril said, not so much as glancing up. "For a member of our team."

"Are you-" she tried, then stopped with a frustrated huff. Athenril had been less than forthcoming, and less than patient. Their trip across Lowtown had been far more hurried than she would have liked. But now they'd been sitting in a dark hole long enough that she was certain the sun had set, and the elf hadn't said much of anything.  _Six months to a year_  had gone unanswered except by a shrug.

Bethany tugged at her kerchief again, then pushed away from the sack (thankfully dry and not too lumpy) she'd found to lean against. She crossed the small space to Athenril, and tilted her head to catch her gaze.

"What, Bethany?"

"Are you planning on telling me what we're doing? Or at least where we're going?" She thought she had a chance, when Athenril's brow quirked and her lips parted, and she leaned a little closer to hear.

But then there was a creak at the top of the stairs, the door to the tavern floor opening. Another elf slipped in, smaller than Athenril and with a thinner face. He hesitated when he saw the two women, then took a deep breath and came down the stairs to them.

He was so small she would have pegged him for an adolescent, but when he spoke his voice was too deep for that. "So, we're going, then?"

Athenril nodded, stepping away from Bethany. "Tonight, if you're up to it. Are you finally done dragging your feet, Ivarius?"

Bethany looked between them, hoping desperately for an explanation. None came. Athenril didn't so much as glance back at her, of course, and Bethany crossed her arms over her chest and turned away.

Maybe she should just say no to this all, after all. If Athenril wasn't going to tell her anything-

"You've brought a mage into this?" Ivarius asked, and Bethany stiffened.

"I think it gives us a much better chance of success. She's a good woman. I've worked with her before," Athenril said, and Bethany's skin crawled. Slowly, she looked back at the two. Athenril still ignored her. Ivarius's gaze was locked on her, unwavering.

 _Ivarius_. That was- a Tevinter name?

She swallowed.

"I'm only here to help," she offered, then glanced to Athenril. "And take orders, I guess."

"Exactly," Athenril said, and she took a step towards Ivarius. "So, are you finished dragging your feet? I'd really like to get this one out of the city, and I've been waiting a month for you to find wherever you left your balls."

Ivarius snorted and waved a hand dismissively.

"Or," Athenril continued, stepping closer still, "have you forgotten who insisted on this whole endeavor?" Bethany's breath caught. She hated this part - hearing deals go down, hearing the threats and the bargaining and the cajoling. The sneaking, that hadn't been so bad, or taking cargo inventory, but this… she didn't have a stomach for it.

Ivarius's lip curled, and then he shook his head. "Fine. Yes, I'm ready to go. As long as your mage there keeps her hands and spells to herself."

"She will," Athenril said, flatly. "And her name is Bethany. Bethany, this is Ivarius. He gave me the idea for our little expedition-" he snorted- "and will be how we get in."

"Get in where?" Bethany asked, heart beginning to sink again.

Ivarius looked to Athenril with raised brows and a bit of a smirk. "You mean you haven't told the mage yet?"

"I was waiting for a good moment," she said, then jerked her chin towards the faintly outlined door in the corner. "Bethany, get your things. The wagons are waiting just outside the city wall."

"Where are we going?" Bethany asked, not moving. "Athenril-"

Athenril walked to her, picking up her sack and staff and pressing it into her hands. She smiled, too close for Bethany's comfort, and then she said with a shrug,

"We're going to Minrathous."


	2. Chapter 2

"Tevinter. We're going to  _Tevinter_ ," Bethany repeated for what must have been the fiftieth time since she'd followed Athenril, wide-eyed and hazy-minded, from the tavern basement. " _Tevinter,"_  she said, and it was almost a moan.

Athenril ignored her except to beckon with quick flicks of her fingers when Bethany fell behind.

What she should have done, she thought as the city gate closed behind them, was to have put her foot down and refused. She should have left Athenril and Ivarius the moment they got outside, and gone straight back home. Or straight to the Gallows. The ferries were probably still running, even with the moon beginning to rise, and really, that was a better option that riding in a wagon all the way to  _Tevinter_.

Tevinter, where mages were little better than abominations. Tevinter, where blood magic was supposed to be as common as _breathing_. Tevinter, with its slaves and its power-struggles and its corrupted Chant.

Tevinter, the one place her father never dared take them, even though the templars would have never come for them there.

She trudged forward on unfeeling feet. It was impossible to believe. It was impossible to imagine going all the way to Minrathous and back. It had to be a joke. It had-

Bethany yelped as she bumped into Athenril, stumbling back and blinking rapidly. There was the creak of wood, the low murmur of voices. There was a fire, off the side of the road. And there was Athenril, impassive with her slight smirk, looking back at her and shaking her head.

"Yes," she said, the first words she'd addressed to Bethany since they'd left Kirkwall, "we're going to Tevinter. You're getting very good at saying that." Her smile broadened a moment, and then she tipped her head to the side. "Do you know any Tevene?"

"Of course not!" she huffed, and Athenril lifted her hands.

"Well, Ivarius can teach you, then. You'll need at least a little bit."

Ivarius rolled his eyes, then flicked a hand at Athenril and moved off to join what had to be the rest of the team, shadowed in the thin tree cover.

"Are you going to tell me what the plan is?" Bethany said, glaring, "or are you going to wait until we're halfway there, so I can't refuse?"

"It is tempting," Athenril admitted. "But I'll tell you as soon as I get everybody moving."

"And if I don't want to go?"

"Then I am unable to keep my word to your sister, and you'll have a very small, very unpleasant cell to live in the rest of your life." Athenril's lips pursed. "Bethany- I'm going to keep you safe. Nothing will happen to you. On my word."

Bethany took a deep breath. She wanted to tell Athenril that it wasn't enough. She wanted to say that a smuggler's word was not enough. But Athenril had always been fair by them, more than Bethany had ever expected and  _far_  more than Aveline was willing to believe. It had made their parting all the more awkward. There had been no grievances except the technicality of indentured servitude, and Marian's determination that they would be a free family.

"So we're going to Tevinter. Minrathous," she said, slowly.

"Yes."

"And we're going there on a smuggling job."

"Yes," she said, as if indulging a small child. Bethany ground the toe of her boot into the dirt to keep from stomping it petulantly. _Marian_  would have been able to get all the facts up front. But, of course, Marian wasn't here - she had only Marian's letter in her pocket, along with her own wits, and worries. "For six months to a year," she said.

Athenril waved a hand dismissively. "It will take awhile to get there and back."

"And you need a mage for it."

"I'd like one, yes." She sighed, glancing over to the wagons.

Bethany stepped closer to draw her attention back. " _What are we doing_?"

"I'll tell you later," she said, some of the softness dropping away. "We need to get moving, Bethany."

"Does Marian know what you have planned?" She fumbled with the pocket on her belt and dragged out the parchment. "She didn't mention  _any_  of this."

"That's because she doesn't know," she said, and Bethany's heart sank and twisted. The city was close - but so were the Gallows, and that kept her rooted as Athenril continued, "And I will tell you. Later. As soon as I can."

It didn't feel right, and she rubbed at her temple as she tucked the letter away again. "Can you at least tell me what my part is in all of this? Now? Before we leave?" Bethany hazarded a glance over her shoulder. The city walls were too high and too imposing. It was not the same as coming and going by the Twins, but it still chilled her spine and made her wrap her arms tight around herself.

Athenril nodded, then turned and called out orders to get the wagons ready to move. As conversations grew louder, she came back to Bethany, close enough to rest one long-fingered hand on her shoulder.

Bethany met her gaze.

"You," Athenril said, voice soft and carefully kept pleasant, "are going to be Minrathous's newest magister hopeful."

She jerked away as if burned, and Athenril's hand slid down her arm fast, catching her wrist even as her fingers curled into a half-fist. "Absolutely not!" she said, shaking her head. "I'm not- no. I won't do it."

"All you have to do is go to parties. We'll do the rest of the work." She tugged hard on Bethany's wrist, and Bethany tugged back. Her heart pounded and her head spun.

 _Tevinter. Minrathous._ ** _Magister_** -

"I am no magister, Athenril!" she cried.

"I know." Athenril's grip loosened, and two fingers stroked over her wild pulse. "I know. But I need you to play the part of one. Not for long. Most of the job will be travelling. It won't be more than two or three months-"

"You have a very  _strange_  idea of time." She tugged her hand again, and Athenril let go. "I don't want to be a magister at all, let alone for two months! And if it takes longer?"

"Then it takes longer. And if anything goes wrong, I get you out."

"And what were you going to do, if I didn't agree to leave the city with you? What are you going to do if I march right back to the gates right now?" She jabbed her finger at the shadow of the walls, even though she knew she was too nervous to make that walk on her own. She was too nervous for a lot of things. Most of the time, she was too nervous to do anything but let her father's sarcasm sneak into her voice just a little, when she'd really rather object.

She was objecting now.

Athenril stood, unmoving, a piece of solid stone for all her usual lithe quickness. "Well," she said, never looking away and never having the decency to look sheepish or apologetic. "I'd mention first that you'll need a bribe for them to let you in with your accent. And then I'd run the job and it would be a lot more difficult and a much greater risk."

Then the smuggler sighed, shaking her head with a faint little smile. "But I would like if far more if you came. And not just because I promised your sister. You're a good woman, Bethany, and you deserve to see a little bit more of the world. You can be as in or as out of this as you want. And you  _will_  come home."

Bethany ducked her head, the fight draining out of her just like it always did when Marian put forward  _the plan_. It seemed- reasonable enough, really, and maybe even safer than some of the things Athenril had asked in the past.

"And," Athenril said, softly, "you and your sister will get a healthy cut of continuing profits, if this all goes as planned."

"Continuing profits?" Bethany asked, voice small.

"Yes. Income, for the next few years- maybe decades. Maybe longer, if we're lucky. And it will be a lot of coin. Enough to keep up the bribes. Your family will be able to move up in the world and stay there. No more living in Gamlen's hovel. Think of it. Comfort. Respect. Protection. No more scrounging in the gutters, ever. And you'll be responsible for it all.

"And all you have to do," she murmured, stepping close enough to touch both hands to Bethany's cheeks, cup her face and tilt it to her, "is wear furs and silks and smile prettily, and for a month not have to hide what you are. You'll be adored, for the whole of you. And who can say no to that?"

If Bethany whimpered, it was a small sound, easily lost. Athenril's thumb stroked lightly over her cheekbone.

"What do you say, Bethany? A vacation to the northern coast. Just you, me, and Ivarius. The rest are only going so far as the city walls with us."

"I'll be safe?" Bethany whispered, and Athenril nodded.

"Safe as a babe in a cradle. On my word."

"I'm-"

"Scared?" Athenril leaned closer, smile private and warm. "We all are. It's completely normal, darling."

 _Darling_. Bethany closed her eyes and leaned into Athenril's touch. This was all a horrible idea. Playing at being a magister, going all the way to Minrathous… but Marian had asked Athenril to get her out of Kirkwall, and a safe trip that did as good a thing for their family as Marian's expedition…

"Please?" Athenril murmured, and Bethany found herself nodding.

"I'll go. I'll help," she whispered.

 _Maker protect me_.

* * *

The wagon, she decided, was simultaneously one of the most useful and most horrendous inventions ever created. She was glad not to have blisters all over her feet, but her stomach was decidedly  _un_ happy to be tossed around with every smallest bump in the uneven road that stretched west towards Cumberland. Her only relief was that her cart was covered, and she didn't risk lurching over the side when they hit a rut. Instead, she sat curled at the back, away from either corner (lest the wheels just beneath jerk up too sharply), and kept her head down.

She wasn't entirely sure Athenril knew what sleeping  _was_. It was full day outside, and the train hadn't stopped yet. There were four carts, two of which were built for living in and one of which seemed given to Bethany alone. Aside from Ivarius and Athenril, there were maybe ten others with them. Some she recognized from her years of service, others not. All were human.

Which made sense, she thought. Tevinter wasn't particularly nice to elves, from what she knew. Fenris's face (scowling, unpleasant, and determinedly untrusting of her) drifted through her mind, and she groaned, rubbing at her eyes.

Right. She didn't want to think about slavery, or about what would happen if she ran into his most pleasant-sounding former master. She certainly didn't need to think about lyrium being burned into her flesh.

But that left Athenril and Ivarius. Athenril she had no doubt could get away from any slavers, and she knew for a fact that the woman abhorred the practice. And Ivarius- Ivarius was a Tevinter name. He had to know what he was risking. He…

 _Oh_.

There was a sharp shudder at the other end of the cart, and Bethany lifted her head. Athenril had hopped up through the small, curtained entrance, and smiled when Bethany met her gaze.

"Awake, then?" she asked, crossing the small space at a stoop and coming to sit on the bench nearby. Bethany stared back at her. "Something like it, anyway," Athenril answered for herself, leaning back.

"Ivarius is a runaway slave, isn't he?" Bethany asked, not moving.

Athenril regarded her languidly, arms stretched out on the back of the seat. She was out of her armor, in fitted breeches and a loose blouse instead. Comfortable. Bethany wondered if she'd been able to sleep, then shoved the thought aside.

"Well?"

"He is," Athenril said, shrugging. "We've worked together for a few months now. One of my associates found him up in Tantervale, looking for coin."

"And you're taking him  _back_?" Bethany scowled, unfolding her legs to look more imperious than a petulant child. "I thought you were better than that."

Athenril shrugged again, then leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. "He insisted on it. I said as much last night. Last month I received some interesting news, and when he heard it, he told me that I had to go after it, and he had to come with me. Forceful little man."

"It's  _dangerous_."

"He knows that." There was no sign of guilt on her face, or shame.

Bethany shook her head. "Last night, you pushed him into it! You're very good at that, you know."

"I have to be." With a sigh, she came to crouch beside Bethany, close enough that Bethany couldn't escape meeting her eyes with any degree of ease. "But you've worked with me for a year, Bethany. Am I not the soul of caution?"

Her scowl softened to a frown. "… More than most smugglers, I suppose."

That brought a smile to Athenril's lips, and she sank to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder. "With you here, it will be less dangerous, you know."

"Will it?" Her frown softened further to just confusion, and she worried at her lower lip.

"The original plan, if we couldn't find a mage on the road that seemed… trustworthy, and I never counted on that, was to go in just the two of us. Pretend to be slaves. Worm our way in to where we need to get to to meet with my contact, and go from there."

Her throat felt dry at the thought of it, Athenril bowing to some magister and taking orders. It wasn't right. "And with me?"

"With you, we belong to your household. You can protect us, and I can make sure that no harm comes to you, either. All around a better idea."

"You could have told me that sooner," she muttered. "You could have told me  _all_  of this sooner."

Athenril hummed quietly, then canted her head to the side. "Maybe. But I had you coming along. It seemed better not to risk it, and I didn't see a reason for you to know. If I had told you all of this back in that alley, would you have come?"

"I would have told you that you were crazy."

"You were ten minutes from being on a ferry to the Gallows, Bethany. I couldn't let you do that. I had to get you in a way that I thought you'd listen to."

"So you meant to lie, but you didn't mean to lie. You sound like my sister, but worse." She laughed weakly and scrubbed at her face. Her head felt so tight, and as the wagon jerked again over a stone or a rut, she swayed to the side.

Athenril caught her, an arm around her waist and a hand on her shoulder to brace her.

"I'll take that as a compliment, I think," Athenril said with a soft chuckle. Her nose brushed Bethany's, and Bethany blushed.

Had Athenril smiled so much a year ago? Had she come so close except to threaten a mark?

"If you like," she mumbled, and ducked her head.

Athenril's grip tightened in something that felt a lot like a hug, and then she sat back, hands sliding away. "Let's go with that. Now, have you slept?"

"Too bumpy."

"How's your stomach?"

Bethany looked at her with a sheepish smile, and she wondered if her pink cheeks had been replaced by how green she felt.

"Ah," Athenril said, and reached for one of the pouches on her belt. She unhooked the latch and fished out something golden and small. "Here, eat this. It should help."

"What is it?"

"Ginger. Candied ginger. All the way from Seheron. It helps settle the stomach. Here, open up," she said, and Bethany obeyed. Athenril settled the morsel on her tongue.

Her mouth flared to life with a strange sort of heat, and Bethany coughed.

"Ah, ah, eat it all," Athenril chided, finally pushing herself up and moving back to the bench. "Chew for as long as you can, then swallow. Don't waste it."

Bethany forced herself to bite down six more times, before she gave up and swallowed, coughing again and rubbing at her throat. " _Maker_. Is this what the Qunari eat, then? No wonder they're so unpleasant."

"Qunari and Tevinters. But it all comes from Seheron. And," she added, relatching the pouch, "it's what we're heading north for."

"What?" Bethany forgot the burn in her mouth, sitting forward, shifting so that her legs were out to the side and one hand was flattened against the jerking floor of the wagon. "That's what we're smuggling?"

That smirk, more familiar than her smile, was back in place. "What did you think we were smuggling?"

"I don't know. I- slaves?"

Athenril shook her head. "You know I don't deal in flesh. Not even to help them to safety. Too damn dangerous."

"Lyrium, then," she tried.

Athenril snorted. "Speaking of dangerous…"

Bethany huffed, sitting back. "But it's this? Candied… ginger?"

"The spice trade, darling," Athenril said, winking. "And it's going to make us all rich." With that, she pushed herself up. "Try to get some sleep. Learning a new language when you've been awake for two days never goes well, hm?"

And with a wink, she pushed aside the curtain and dropped to the road.

 _Spice trade_. Well, it was better than lyrium, and hopefully safer than rescuing slaves. She let her head fall back against the wall of the wagon and drew her knees back up. There was still a chance she could just walk back to Kirkwall, or find another wagon going the other direction. But as she looked at the swaying, thick curtain, and as another rut made the wheel bounce, she realized that a part of her - a growing part - didn't want to.

It was an adventure. And as much as Tevinter and its magisters frightened her, she had always been curious. Their Chantry was different, their mages were different. The templars were different. It was supposed to be warm there, even in the winter. And she couldn't say that the thought of silks and furs didn't appeal to her.

And if Athenril said she could keep her safe, if she really had all of this planned…

She  _had_ always kept her word.

Bethany reached to her hip and tugged out the letter from Marian again, spreading it out on her knees. Marian may have had no idea her little sister was going north, or for so long, but maybe that was for the best. An adventure of her own, one where she wasn't on the run.

It might even be a little fun. Maybe it was what she needed. She'd spent the last year trying to figure herself out, and maybe this would help.

She nodded to herself, and carefully folded the letter again, thumb brushing over the design in the corner until the last. With it set aside, she tested her feet. Her stomach had settled from that ginger of Athenril's, and without the uncomfortable roil, she felt like maybe, if she thought about Aveline's talks with Marian about swordplay, she could sleep.

* * *

The wagon stopped.

She had found a few blankets tucked into the cabinets built beneath the bench seats. The wagons were made for long travel, but if there was something meant to be a bed, she hadn't found it. Instead, she had settled on the floor of the wagon, too nervous of falling off one of the benches.

When the jerking and halting forward pull of the wagon stopped, she didn't wake entirely. She turned over, burying her face into the blanket she had folded into her pillow, as if her mother called from outside the door.

But the shout that followed was not in Leandra's voice. It was a man's, and it was angry, and Bethany was upright in an instant.

 _What did he say_? She scrambled through her mind's sleep fog for the memory, but whatever had been said scattered in the building rush of voices beyond the curtain.

"You have no right - we are a lawful trading caravan-"

It was Athenril's voice, and that alone made her blood begin to crackle and freeze. Athenril was putting herself forward as the woman in charge, but who would believe an elf had that kind of authority? Athenril had always let her human lackeys do the talking to those who didn't already know to fear her, and had no reason to learn.

"We have  _every_ right," a man replied, voice clipped and deep. "Chantry law states that-"

 _Oh no. No, no, no_. Visions of flaming swords passed before her eyes, and she hunkered down, curling tight. Where just a day ago she would have walked into those blades, now she only felt the old fear.  _Run. Mother taught me to run- Father taught me to_ ** _run_** _-_

Marian wasn't there to protect her, and Carver was rotting somewhere in Lothering. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Chantry law," Athenril spat, "has no jurisdiction on trade not involving Chantry goods. Which we are not carrying."

"And what are you carrying?" Bethany could hear footsteps, but his voice grew no louder as he spoke. Was another templar approaching? Would they pull back the curtain and see her immediately laid bare, as if just her hair could bring down fire and ice with a stray curl? She drew back, then froze as the wood beneath her creaked.

 _No, no, no_.

She had barely tasted the freedom that Athenril had given her - this was too soon, all too soon. And what would Athenril do if the templars kept pushing? It would be  _unprofitable_  to try to complete the mission without her, and too dangerous to kill a detachment of the Chantry's finest. So would she break her promise to Marian and leave Bethany to the Gallows all the same?

"You say you come from Ostwick?" the templar said, and she could almost hear him scowling. "Then you should have heard about the Starkhaven Circle. There are  _apostates_  on these roads, and where better to hide than in a band of heathen misfits?"

The steps outside the wagon neared. Her blood had turned from ice to flaming oil in her veins, her throat choked up with her heart. Should she simply give in? Turn herself over, and ask for mercy? Would that save the rest? Would that save  _her_?

"I heard," Athenril replied, levelly, "that all of  _those_  mages were rounded up. By Kirkwall templars."

"So it is said."

"Bit of city rivalry, boy?"

Bethany bit down a sudden, broken laugh.

"Do  _not_  talk back to me-" the templar growled, and Bethany fought away her smile.

The curtain was pulled aside at last, and a woman with russet hair cropped close to her long and bland face peered in. The woman wore full templar plate, and frowned at Bethany.

Bethany stammered a, "Good day, ser."

Her father had once told her that a templar could only smell magic on a mage if she had been casting recently. And when had she last cast? More than a day. Possibly over a week. She tried to avoid it when she could, but eventually the urge, the necessity, would build up to where it set her soul alight. She wasn't at that point yet, either. But that could take over a month-

The woman looked her over. "State your business," she said, flatly.

"I'm a traveller," Bethany said, fighting the urge to fidget. She had spoken to templars before - the knight captain that Marian had met, the men who guarded Lothering's chantry who on occasion tried to make small talk with the girl who would slip in to hear Sister Leliana speak.

"Given the luxury of riding in a passenger wagon?" the templar asked. There was no suspicious quirk of her brow, only a gaze that struck straight through her.

No, not all the way through. She pulled on her father's wit and Varric's stories.

"I'm pregnant," Bethany said, blinking what she hoped looked like wide, guileless eyes.

The woman's gaze dropped. "Not noticeably."

"It's early," Bethany rushed to assure her, "but it's been confirmed by a midwife. I've missed my bleeding - it's two weeks past, and it was always so regular."  _Why, why couldn't the Maker have sent me a male templar, to disgust with this talk of hygiene and fertility_? Bethany squared her shoulders. Best to add a note of truth. "And it would be a burden on my family-"

"And so you run off."

"We're nobility," she said.

"Travelling with elves."

 _More truth._ One of Marian's old lessons in getting away with anything. "Poor nobles. My mother's brother gambled everything away, and we're trying to make our name again - hoping the fortune will come back along with it. This would be a disgrace - it would ruin  _everything_. I couldn't… I couldn't remain there and see it all fall apart. This way they might never find me. I left a note-"

The woman raised a hand. " _Enough_."

"Lieutenant Ophia, find something?" the original templar called. Bethany held her breath, every tendon pulled taut in anticipation of interrogation, of a testing blast of power to scare her out. She had been locked from her magic in only one battle before, but she could remember too well the violence of that emptiness.

Bethany bit her lip.

"No," the lady templar said, pulling back and letting the curtain fall. "Just a fool girl."

"I told you," Athenril said, "that we're clean. Go find some other people to bother, preferably the ones with the silly hats and tree branches who seem suspiciously surrounded by frogs."

Bethany sagged back against the nearby bench and waited until the sound of horses faded behind them.

But the wheels didn't begin to turn, and Bethany frowned, crawling back to the entrance.

"- might as well get started," a man said, and he sounded exhausted. There was a touch of an accent coming out.  _Ivarius_.

"You're probably right." Athenril. Sounding tense and relieved all in the same breath. Footsteps approached, far lighter than the templars'. Bethany scooted back just as the curtain was pulled away again.

Athenril smiled wanly at her. "Good job, girl," she said.

Bethany swallowed and managed her own weak smile, though her gaze flicked back to Ivarius standing behind her. "I have… experience."

"And that's why I know I can count on you," Athenril said. "… But I'd understand," she continued, expression growing thoughtful, "if you needed a bit of a break after that. Some time in the sun, perhaps. Or some good whiskey."

Bethany flushed. "I-"

"Don't be soft on her, Athenril," Ivarius muttered. "The magisters won't."

"Oh, I don't know about that. A little bit of innocence can go a long way." Athenril's tone remained light, but the words made Bethany shiver and pull her blanket closer. "Well, are you up to the next phase of our little jaunt?"

Bethany wanted nothing more than the wheels to slide into motion in all their jerking, jittering glory. "Yes," she said.

"First Tevene lesson," Athenril said, stepping aside and motioning Ivarius inside. "Ends when we make camp for the night."

Ivarius' brow was drawn down as he settled down on the bench nearest Bethany. He didn't look at her, only waving Athenril off. Before the curtain fell back in place, she looked him over. His hair, dark and curly, was cropped short, leaving the scars on one side of his face and his ear all too visible, and he held himself a lot like Fenris did - all tension and anger.

She took a breath. She could do this. It would be a much-needed distraction from what had just transpired, and there was always the promise of being able to talk her way out of danger in  _two_  languages.

And maybe when she returned, she could tell Fenris a joke in Tevene, and if she was lucky, he'd laugh instead of ripping her throat out.

"So, ah," she said, running her hands through her hair and hoping it hadn't gone too wild sleeping on the floor, "where do we start?"

"At the word  _stop_. Listen well, and repeat after me. You'll likely need it."

She whispered the fastest prayer to the Maker she knew, then nodded.

His smile was tight and grim. " _Insisteve_."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they reached Cumberland, Bethany could bow and scrape in laughably accented Tevene, and knew to listen for fifteen  _get out of there immediately_  phrases that had managed to work themselves all too well into mage-vivid nightmares.

" _Sacrificia parentur†,_ " she mumbled, looking up at the city gates and for a moment seeing what she imagined Minrathous to be, all lyrium-laced stone and crackling power. But it was just Cumberland.  _Just_  Cumberland, when three years ago she had thought she would never, ever leave Ferelden.  _Just_  Cumberland, closer to the seat of the Divine and the templars than she ever thought she would come.  _Just_  Cumberland, their last stop before they met the Imperial Highway.

A section of the Imperial Highway had passed by Lothering, but it had never filled her with the nerves that a road she couldn't even see yet did.

A hand settled on her shoulder, and Bethany jerked, and would have yelped if another hand hadn't lightly covered her mouth. "Jumpy," Athenril murmured by her ear. "Good trait, but you need to learn how not to squeak. Or to flail."

Bethany wasn't sure how she felt about how Athenril had taken to touching her. They were light touches, and over quickly, and Bethany had never told her not to - but Athenril had also never so much as tapped her shoulder in her year of service. Had it been Marian? Or was Athenril just in an unbreakable good mood with the promise of profit?

She took a deep breath as Athenril let go of her, stepping around her and canting her head. "You'll get there yet," she said. "Don't look at me like that - like a startled pup."

"It's a Fereldan thing, I think," she said, shaking herself. "So, Cumberland?"

"So, Cumberland." Athenril looked over her shoulder. "Provisioning, mostly. I need to talk to a few people, but I doubt we'll stay the night."

"Oh." She tried not to look too disappointed, but Athenril was unfailingly perceptive.

"You were looking forward to a bed, huh?"

Bethany nodded. "And a trip to the chantry."

"Really?" Athenril's brow furrowed, and then she snorted. "So that's why you were conveniently missing in the early evenings two days a week last year. It isn't dangerous?"

"It's a risk worth taking." It had been worth taking in Lothering, where the town was so small the templars could learn to recognize your face in a month. It had been worth it in Kirkwall, even with the shadow of the Gallows over everything.

But the smuggler's jaw only tightened. "Not on my job, it isn't."

"Athenril-"

She held up a hand and Bethany stopped short. "You spent, what, two weeks in the hold of that ship from Ferelden to Kirkwall? What did you do then? And for the last week and a half?"

Bethany tugged at her kerchief. "That's different. I didn't have the chance."

"And I say you don't have the chance now, either."

"I've been sleeping in a wagon for a week and a half!" She had the backache to prove it.

"And I've been sleeping on the ground." Athenril shook her head- then sighed. "I  _have_  been sleeping on the ground. But I'm not slowing us down a day unless it gives us an edge. And you going to the chantry is about the opposite."

Bethany chewed on her lower lip and did her best to look pitiable.

Athenril lips quirked for just a moment, and she shook her head again. "Fine. I'll think on it. We'll at least have more time to haggle over food prices."

"Thank you."

"Mm," she hummed, and inclined her head. "But remember, keep your head down. I don't need templars chasing us north."

"Of course." Bethany was already beaming, the thought of  _bed, warm bath,_ and maybe even a trip to a side chapel if she couldn't approach the main chantry filling her head. Her fingers stayed curled around her kerchief, but it stopped being a tense gesture and more one of delighted nerves.

Athenril chuckled to herself as she turned back to the wagons behind them.

* * *

The Chant still sang in her ears as she strolled down the steps away from the towering building behind her. Maybe it was the idea of her as magister that had her bold already, or maybe it was the triumph of Athenril finally giving in.

 _Just look for us after your service_ , she'd said, and Bethany dutifully did that - though with no particular vigor. Really, the Cumberland evening was pleasant. It was a far cry from Kirkwall, with wide, clean streets and a more open plan. Buildings weren't piled atop buildings, and stairs were rare. There were rooftop gardens and the air smelled of lingering summer flowers.

She wondered if Minrathous was going to be just like this. Or Val Royeaux - was Val Royeaux so grand? And this wasn't even Nevarra's capital, just its largest port, and the home of its Circle.

And even the Circle here looked lovely, if she had the building right. They had seen it riding into the city. It sat on a high hill overlooking the city and seemed built of gold and colonnades, with rounded, high walls, and  _windows_. It had gleamed and danced in the sunlight, and if Beth peered down the right avenues, she could see glimpses of it still. It was a far sight better than the Gallows, and for a moment she had wondered why they had sailed to Kirkwall and not here.

The answer, of course, was that the boat trip would have been far more expensive, and the city guard even less willing to let refugees in, even ignoring the hope of family they'd all held. Her traveling clothes had earned her odd looks in the chantry, her accent even more. It was a lovely city, but it was very, very proud. And here,  _Amell_  was a name that meant very little, if nothing at all.

At the foot of the long, shallow flight of stairs was a plaza made of patterned stone. There were no stalls or homes that opened up towards the chantry, but there were statues, and even a pool of water where flowers and pond plants floated. She came to stand by it, peering down into the water. It had to be carefully cleaned, to keep it so clear with no stream running to it. She could see down to the bottom, and could see her own reflection.

… Oh. She looked-

Well, she looked as if she had been on the road for almost two weeks. Dirty, and her hair, while not tangled, didn't do her any favors. That explained the unimpressed looks, at least. A night at an inn seemed even more attractive, and hopefully Athenril would yield to her suit for a warm bath.

She heard the footsteps, this time, and was already looking back over her shoulder when Athenril came close enough to settle a hand on her shoulder. She chuckled. "I made that one easy," she admitted, then patted Bethany's back and came around to stand next to her, looking down at the water. "Huh. A little bit extravagant, don't you think?"

"I think it's lovely."

"And you worry you won't like Minrathous," Athenril laughed.

Bethany blushed and shoved a hand through her hair, which seemed suddenly heavy with dust and dirt. Grainy, too. How had she let it get so bad? "So," she said, scuffing her boot heel against the stone, then rubbing at the spot with her toe as if to expunge the memory from the ground, "tonight?"

"Yes?" Athenril looked up, attentive.

"… can I have a bath drawn?"

"Well, that depends on how much of your own coin you brought with you," Athenril said, and Bethany's expression fell.  _Very little_ was the answer. Not more than a silver, and all in Kirkwall coppers. Marian had spent so much on the expedition, and Bethany hadn't wanted to take any more from her mother. And to spend it on something luxurious like a bath…

Athenril laughed again, and Bethany looked up to her. "I'm kidding," the smuggler said. "I think I'd like one, too. I'll handle it."

"Oh, thank you," Bethany said.

"But before that, we have an appointment." She jerked her head towards one of the avenues.

Bethany eyed it. At least it wasn't a dark side alley. "Another one? You have so many."

"It's part of being a businesswoman. Come on."

* * *

"A dress shop?"

Bethany peered in through the door, unsure of where to look for all the bolts of silk, the lace, the ribbons. It was a  _Cumberland_ dress shop, and very nice, and very…

Overwhelming.

Athenril's hand settled on her back, then pushed, and Bethany nearly stumbled on her way into the shop proper. "Yes," the smuggler said, ushering her further forward, "a dress shop. We can't get you the clothing you'll need here-"  _robes_ , Bethany thought,  _oh Maker I'll need so many robes if I'm going to be in Tevinter_ \- "but Ivarius gave me an idea of the current cuts, and we'll get you something so you can get the feel of it down. Besides, he says it will look more suspicious if you don't have some dresses from where you've ostensibly come from."

"Oh," Bethany managed, and she wasn't sure if she was confused and nervous from the reminder of Minrathous society, or if she was breathless with excitement for lovely,  _fancy_  dresses.

She'd always wanted one, but it had been mother who made her clothing, and mother, while she had a good sense of style, didn't have much access to anything beyond wool. Linen, at the best.

"We're only here for a night," Athenril said, and for a moment Bethany thought she was talking to her and wondered at the softer tone of her voice. But then she saw another woman, tall and narrow, watching them from behind a table, brow quirked.

Bethany took a deep breath and tried to remember everything Leandra had ever told her about comporting herself. She inclined her head in greeting.

Athenril brushed by her, bowing lower. "My mistress will need something altered, and not custom made. Is that possible, messere?"

 _Mistress_. Sometimes she forgot that an elf, even one as self-possessed and confident as Athenril, could not simply walk into a high-end dress shop and begin handing down orders. Bethany nodded silently, and the woman looked her up and down.

"We may have something suitable," the woman said, rising to her feet. "Something in silk?"

Bethany opened her mouth to say  _no, linen or wool is fine_ , but before the words left her mouth, Athenril said, "Yes, messere."

A warm bath and  _silk_.

Was it normal, to feel pampered and honored even while being reminded how little control she had over the whole situation? She had a sinking feeling that this would be what Minrathous was like all the time. Servants -  _slaves_  - everywhere, beautiful clothing, delicious food… and the knowledge that she was there as cover, and that if she misstepped, she'd be risking so many.

She was stiff-backed when she responded to the crook of the seamstress's finger and followed her to the back room.

* * *

Half an hour later she was standing as still as she could while the woman pinned the gown they'd settled on - deep teal, as low cut and off the shoulders as her usual blouse, with a small train and meadowlarks picked in golden embroidery along the neckline and down a strip that ran the length of the front of the dress. She felt more like a dress-up doll than a pampered lady, the way that Athenril continued to do all the talking. A dress-up doll that had been dragged behind a small child through the dirt.

The seamstress wasn't shy about her disapproval, and had only let her try on the dress once they'd settled on two options. She doubted she'd get to try on the other.

It  _was_  very pretty, and at least it was one she would have picked for herself.

Athenril stood opposite her, tapping one long finger against her lips. "Hm. Can it be brought down further in the front?" she asked, and Bethany bit her lip and looked up, blushing. It was one thing for the smuggler to be dressing her up like a toy; it was quite another for her gaze to be fixed unfailingly on Bethany's chest, asking for it to be exposed even more than it was.

"Athenril," she said, a half-hearted warning.

"My lady," Athenril said, stressing it enough that Bethany flushed brighter, "it would be such a shame to hide such assets."

"They're already not hidden. And you sound like Isabela," Bethany muttered, then squeaked as a straight pin dug into her hip. There was no apology from the seamstress, and Bethany swallowed any protest down.

"Do I? Well, the woman does have decent taste, I'll admit that." Athenril hummed thoughtfully, then stepped close, hands finding Bethany's waist. Bethany blinked, startled, but Athenril only tugged at the fabric. "She showed me this marvelous hat shop in Lowtown, once," she added, then leaned around to look at the seamstress. "Like this? Can it be done like this?"

The woman must have nodded, because Athenril smiled up at Bethany.

Bethany just shook her head. "That means something, doesn't it.  _Hat shop in Lowtown_. She doesn't even wear hats. She doesn't even change clothing."

"Of course she does," Athenril said, hands still not leaving Bethany's waist, palms warm through the layers of fabric. "She takes them off and puts them back on."

"Athenril!" Was silk flammable? She hoped it wasn't flammable. She lifted her arms to press her hands to her cheeks, taking a deep breath.

The elf just winked and ran her thumbs along the fabric for just a moment, then stepped back. "All it means,  _my lady_ , is that there is a shop, in Lowtown, that makes lovely hats. I swear on my honor."

"We're going to have to have a talk about what  _your honor_  actually is," Bethany huffed, rocking back onto her heels before she was jerked back into place by the seamstress.

* * *

_A mage always knew when she was dreaming. It had something to do with magic and the Fade, the constant link and draw between the two. Bethany had never known anything different, and could still remember talking about her dreams as small child, while Carver and Marian looked on bewildered and told her she was making things up, because that wasn't how dreams worked. You didn't_ know _you were dreaming - that was what made it dreaming._

_Her father had scooped her up and spun her around and told her that he always knew when he was dreaming, too._

_She was dreaming now. She knew that for certain. But knowing she was dreaming meant only that; the dream went on around her, and though she knew she was in the Fade, she couldn't see the Black City or the spirits that made up the ever-shifting landscape. She could only see the woods that stretched out behind their little house in Lothering, and the hem of her dress caught on every twig and rock jutting from the soil as she began to walk._

_The chantry brazier needed more firewood. It wasn't a task she had ever actually done, or at least not with official sanction. Once or twice she had snuck into the courtyard of the chantry and left sticks, hoping it would help. Now, though, she knew with full certainty that this was a task she'd been given. It was a task of service and penitence. They'd let her be a Sister if she did well enough, and so she had ranged far from her little house in all her regalia._

_Her house was- well, it was up over the ridge, and perhaps around something. She knew where it was, even if she couldn't picture the path. And there, waiting for her, was her mother, and her father, and Marian, and Carver. All of them would be by the fire waiting for her, and her mother would chide her over staining the hem of her dress. It was silk, and silk was meant for ballrooms, not forests._

_She stooped to pick up another branch, but before she could tuck it into the crook of her arm with all the others, a gloved hand caught the other end of it. It had long, slender fingers, and the arm it was attached to was similarly long and narrow. She lifted her eyes._

_Athenril looked back at her._

_Or at least, she looked like Athenril. She had Isabela's golden labret and collar, but the rest was all familiar elf, even if she had never seen her dressed quite the way she was. Where she usually wore armor, the woman now wore tight leggings and high, buckled boots, a doublet with fine embroidery, soft leather gloves, and a hat worn at a jaunty angle with far too many feathers tucked into its folded brim._

_She also wore a testing smirk, and with a sharp tug of the branch, Bethany stumbled forward, dropping the firewood she carried. Athenril caught an arm around her waist and pulled her close, tossing the branch she still held aside and instead tucking a finger beneath Bethany's chin._

_Athenril's nose brushed hers, and, giddy and shaking, Bethany leaned in to meet her._

_And then the dream ended, dropping Bethany back into the abyss of sleep that was no different for a mage than for any other._

* * *

She woke up to the dark of the room before dawn, and Athenril's slow breathing beside her. In an instant she was sitting up and staring down at the silhouetted form next to her. It had been a dream. It had been a  _dream_ , and she had known the whole time it was a dream, and-

And-

And they were sharing a bed only because Athenril hadn't wanted to spend extra coin on another one. Bethany's breathing evened out, and she ran a hand through her hair. Her  _clean_  hair. The bath had been glorious, as had dinner, and while bedding down next to Athenril had been a little awkward after how she'd looked at her in the dress shop, it had been so much nicer than the wagon that she'd fallen asleep easily.

Pulling her hair over one shoulder and twisting it to soothe her lingering nerves, she tried not to look at Athenril. Knowing her, she was likely awake and wondering what Bethany was doing.

 _Having naughty dreams_. It had been like something out of one of Isabela's stories. Was that why Athenril had worn Isabela's jewelry? Or was it all that talk of  _hat shops_?

Bethany winced.

She  _had_  been wearing a hat.

Quietly, Bethany slipped from the straw mattress. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but it was better than the warmth of the blankets. She listened for Athenril's laugh or a sly comment, but there was none. Only even breathing.

There was a stool in the corner, and Bethany curled up on that, letting her head fall back against the wall and staring up at the rafters. Dreaming about Athenril kissing her… Marian would be so  _proud_. Of course, if Isabela knew, she'd be giving her a primer on the six things women were good for in bed. And if mother knew…

Well, none of them did. Even Athenril didn't know, and Bethany was determined to keep it that way. It was all the product of a very odd journey, good food, a nice bath, and a gift of the loveliest dress she had ever worn.

She tried not to think about the fact that it was demons and spirits who often created the dreams of mortals, or about the touch of hands on her waist, or Athenril's arm around her in the wagon.

Or about how dashing Athenril had looked in that blighted hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † - sacrificia parentur: a bastardization of the phrase, "let the sacrifices be prepared." Apeacebone on Tumblr helped with this!


	4. Chapter 4

It was a lovely night, even if it was far too dry with far too few trees. It was chilly, though, and the breeze was dusty, and-

Who was she kidding? It wasn't a lovely night at all, except for the spread of stars above.

They were nearing the end of the stretch of desert known as the Silent Plains. It was all thin scrubland, with hard grasses where there were grasses, and great expanses of bare stone. The whole land was grey and tan, and it all blended into itself, especially when the height of day made the air shimmer. The only break was the Imperial Highway, glittering white as always.

The camp was down by the side of the road wall, tucked into its shadow. Like every night, she had gone off a distance on her own, sitting down to think wrapped in a heavy cloak. Athenril had said they were halfway to Minrathous, and only two weeks from Val Dorma.  _Val Dorma_ , the first Tevinter city she would set foot in.  _Val Dorma_ , where she would be made to appear like a magister.

 _Val Dorma_. Two weeks.

She hoped it would be enough.

Her Tevene was... coming, if slowly and clumsily. Ivarius had said that she at least sounded  _cute_ , like a small child, but had followed it up with,  _and that makes you vulnerable_. Her etiquette lessons settled in more easily. Years of Leandra sneaking instruction on how to carry herself in (she knew now) Kirkwall high society into everyday lessons and a fascination with the pageantry of it all, no matter the city or the people, had her paying rapt attention to Ivarius's every word.

She could curtsy properly now, hands over her left hip as she bent her knee and lowered her head. She could gesture correctly, all fingers together and extended. She could hide some expressions behind an unmoving smile. And now, when Athenril took her by surprise with a word or a touch, she only cried out about half the time.

Progress. It was all progress.

Two weeks to Val Dorma, and then from there another week and a half to Minrathous. If no delays happened on the coast, that meant it would have been over two months since they left Kirkwall. Marian would be home by then. Marian might have already  _come_  home. It was a sobering thought.

And then there was Athenril.

She didn't know what to think about Athenril. She still remembered too clearly that dream - and the ones that had come after. She remembered, too, Athenril's gaze dropping to her chest, her ease in touching her shoulder, or her chin, or even stroking her hair once or twice. But beyond those touches, Athenril was as removed and confident as ever.

But if Bethany knew her footsteps (and she did), the smuggler in question was approaching at a leisurely pace. Bethany looked over her shoulder, watching her. She was tall for an elf, and slender, and all clever power. She'd seen her training in the mornings when they didn't break camp immediately, all handsprings and quick strikes, things Bethany could never hope to imitate. It was lovely to watch, though, just like it was lovely to watch Athenril work people. A little disturbing at times, but always in some strange way undeniably elegant.

Her confidence never seemed to falter. Bethany wished she could have that confidence for herself. She'd need it, in all likelihood, for Tevinter.

"What do you do out here every night?" Athenril asked as she came to a stop a few feet away. "The fire is much warmer."

"I know," Bethany said, with a crinkle of her nose. Sighing, she laid back, arms wrapped tight around her to keep her cloak shut. "I'm thinking."

"About home?"

"Sometimes."

Athenril sat down next to her, one knee brought up to her chest, arm draped across it. Bethany kept her glance short, then focused again on the constellations, hard to pick out so far north and with so bright a sky.

"And Tevinter," Athenril said, more statement than question.

Bethany nodded. "I'm scared," she confessed, because it was easier to say it aloud when looking at the stars than when looking at her.

"That's perfectly normal." She said it so easily.

It wasn't easy.

"No," Bethany said, will breaking as she turned her head to look at her with pleading eyes. "I'm  _scared_. I don't know if I can do this. If I fail you-"

"You won't," she said, voice firm. "Ivarius says you're picking up things quickly enough."

"He does?" she asked, incredulous that the cantankerous elf would ever say anything of the sort. Athenril nodded, and Bethany took a deep breath, tilting her head back again. "I'm just- I am no blood mage."

"I know," she said, looking down at her. She said nothing for a moment, then reached out and settled her hand against Bethany's cheek, that confusing and maddening touch that Bethany couldn't untangle. "We will never say that you are."

"And that won't risk the job?" Her voice trembled, almost as much as her hands did where they wound tight into the fabric of her cloak.

Athenril's lips quirked into that half smile, half smirk of hers and Bethany felt as if she were on fire beneath her hands. "Not at all," Athenril murmured. "I can imagine some would love to empower and corrupt somebody like you, darling."

 _Would you_?

The thought came unbidden and suddenly  _on fire_  couldn't quite describe how she felt, lips parting and toes curling in her boots. "O-oh," she managed, barely a sigh.

And Athenril's smiling smirk only grew stronger. "Innocence can be very... heady. For some." Her eyes lidded and her hand trailed down to her throat. Bethany's heart seemed to stop and she stared up at her, unable to move.

If she just leaned down- if she blocked out the moon and came down, if she  _kissed_  her-

Athenril pulled away with a broad smile. "Come on," she said. "Time for sleep, and dreams."

She barely held back her groan.  _Dreams_  were the last things she needed. But all the same, she took the hand offered to her and let herself be hauled up and ushered back to the fire, stomach fluttering and cheeks red. It was the dusty, chill wind, she told herself, and nothing more.

* * *

Val Dorma was everything and nothing like she had expected.

It wasn't a rich city - at least, according to Ivarius, not by Tevinter standards. It had none of the glittering opulence of Cumberland, to be sure. But the buildings instead had delicate details carved into all the walls, decorative fluting and grates with geometric cut-outs. The roads were narrow, especially the further into the city they journeyed, but they were paved, with raised portions to walk on, and gutters that directed the refuse below the city. Buildings seemed stacked on top of one another, haphazard and crowded, and yet Bethany found them charming.

But no matter how charming she found it all, she couldn't feel comfortable. Men and women walked openly in robes. Some were in cuts she was familiar with from her father's tales and glimpsing apostates and the mages of the Circle in Kirkwall. Some seemed almost like normal clothing. Some were extravagant costumes, and she wondered why their wearers would risk getting them dirty or stepped on.

Before they reached the center, Bethany saw three instances of public magic. Nobody wore face veils or masks. Nobody looked around nervously for templars. It made her feel panic- panic and elation, giddiness and disbelief.

It was really happening.

They were in Tevinter.

And  _they_  only consisted of Ivarius and Athenril now, at least within the city walls. Ivarius followed five steps behind her, head bowed. Athenril was closer at hand, glancing around for any sign of trouble.

 _I'm your bodyguard_ , Athenril had told her the other day.  _Ivarius is your slave for all things not immediately related to your person. I take care of the rest_. If given the choice, Bethany would have sent both away. But the job and her nerves wouldn't allow it, and it was all she could to to keep from taking Athenril's arm or hand the way she would have Marian's, gazing about in nervous wonder.

She did glance back to her, though, when they reached any crossroads, and slowly they made their way to wherever Athenril had planned.

"Here, mistress," Athenril murmured, and the change from  _Bethany_  to _mistress_  was more jarring than  _my lady_  had been in Cumberland. Then, it had seemed almost comic. Here, it made her feel sick to her stomach. She stopped and looked back to Athenril, then to Ivarius.

"To get you clothing better suited to your station, mistress," Athenril said when Bethany didn't move, jerking her chin towards the building they had come to.

 _Maker_ , it was another dress shop.

Bethany took a deep breath, then nodded. "Of course." It didn't  _look_  like a dress shop. It looked like a temple, an old ruin. The outer walls curved sharply and columns surrounded the whole structure, painted in shades of red and gold. If it were Cumberland, she would have turned right around and said,  _oh no, I am not going in there_. It was too... everything.

Too Tevinter, most importantly, and too much of a definite first step. A pretty silk dress (that she had had to run through courtesies in for seemingly endless days, laughing at herself in the back of a wagon in finery) was not very serious, in the end. She wore it now, and she could almost forget how Athenril had tugged it low in the front. But robes- robes that they would have to leave once they left Tevinter, robes that would mark her as a mage in public, and one aspiring to power-

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, the way Ivarius had taught her to, and strode through the columns, skirt hissing over the stone. The Maker favored her; she found the door.

Inside, two slaves met them within ten paces. They were thinner than Ivarius, dressed in fine fabrics in dull, muted colors. Their sleeves were wide and hid all but their fingertips, and they looked only at the hem of Bethany's dress. That let her feel a little better about wringing her hands in front of her, uncertain and nervous. Her whole world seemed to close in. Sounds seemed to dim.

"Does Mistress wish to be fitted for robes, or is she here to pick up a previous order?" one of the slaves, an elf woman with grey-streaked hair pulled back into a coiled braid bun, said.

Athenril tapped her on the back, and she took another step forward.

"To be fitted," Bethany said, doing her best not to rub her toes into the floor. Ivarius had noticed the habit, and Athenril had suggested she keep it to a minimum.  _Innocent but not nervous_  had been her advice.

"Very well. Your servants shall lead you, Mistress," the same woman said, and the two backed up eight paces (not the Minrathous ten that Ivarius had told her to expect), turned, and only then straightened from the slight bow they had stood in.

She could do this. She  _would_  do this.

Bethany followed.

They left the entrance hall into a round path, circling a central garden. Hightown's gardens had been things of pruned bushes and maybe a few flowers. Here there were trailing vines, paths built to look as if they had been made by the passage of animals, stones and benches and flowers Bethany had never seen. She tried not to stare as the slaves led them along the round, shadowed from the sun by a carved porch held up with more pillars.

She would have to ask Athenril later where this was. This couldn't be the average robe shop, and Bethany worried at her lip a moment before she remembered not to.

The door she was led to was a little more than a quarter turn around the building. It was a lacquered door, and the older woman rapped on the wood three times before opening the latch. "This way, Mistress," she said, stepping aside so that Bethany could precede her.

She was three steps through the door, eyes wide at the array of fabrics and furs and trims around her, when she heard,

"I'm sorry, you'll have to wait outside."

Bethany turned. The woman had an arm out, blocking Athenril. Ivarius stood back, as if he had expected it. He likely had.

"I would like them with me," Bethany said, hoping that her voice wasn't too soft or too questioning.

"Mistress, retinues can endanger other customers," the younger of the two said. She was no more than a girl and a pale flower was tucked into her dark hair.

"They're hardly a retinue." Her lips tightened into a hard line. "A retinue cannot be one person. I require my bodyguard." Her eyes fixed on Athenril. She could do this, but she didn't want to face this first step alone. "Please let her through. Ivarius, do you mind- you can stay outside."

"Yes, Mistress," he said, and she tried not to note the sarcastic quirk to the second word. Instead, she looked to the older woman.

The older woman lowered her eyes and bowed, taking three steps back from the door. Athenril entered with a smirk trying to break from behind her impassive expression, and Bethany couldn't help her small smile and nod.

"Pria?" came a voice from deeper within the stacks of fabrics that Bethany now had the chance to look over, all velvets and silks and laces. "Have you brought me customers?"

"Just one, Domina," the older woman said. "Shall your servant lead her back?"

"To a room, I think. The third on the left, if you would."

"Of course, Domina." Pria bowed towards the disembodied voice, then to Bethany. "This way, Mistress."

 _Is it the accent_? Bethany thought as she followed behind Pria. The other woman stayed by the door.  _Mistress or Domina... I suppose it's better to be called Mistress_.

It at least preserved the illusion that she was somehow normal.

The room she was led to was more a space set off by delicately carved screens. These screens weren't wood, but instead a white, bone-like material. Each slat of the screen was only five inches wide at most, and the hinges were gold-plated. She resisted the urge to trail her fingers over them in wonder, instead turning to look at Athenril and Pria.

Athenril bowed slightly, while Pria sank almost to one knee in her curtsy. Bethany turned away again, pressing her palms to her cheeks and taking what must have been the hundredth deep breath since stepping foot inside the city. She felt almost ready to turn around again when she felt a tug at the laces of the back of her dress. She froze, hands still against her face. Another tug, and then the telltale slide of silk on thread-bound grommet, and the loosening of the neckline-

Bethany jerked away, turning to look at Pria, who had dropped the laces and had dropped to her knees on the floor. "Apologies, Mistress," she gasped, brow touched to the floor. "Your servant only meant to assist you in undressing."

Bethany's hands hovered helplessly in front of her, and she looked to Athenril and mouthed  _help me_.

"My Mistress," Athenril said, gaze never dropping from Bethany's, "prefers only me to help to help her undress."

"Your servant apologizes," Pria said, tapping her forehead against the floor. The faint sound of it made Bethany wince.

"No harm done," she managed, a thin laugh tinging her words. "I- wait outside?"

Pria tapped her forehead to the ground again. "Of course, Mistresss," she murmured, then rose to her feet, still bowed as she backed up to the entrance of the little room, turned, and disappeared behind the other side of the screen.

Bethany sighed, shoulders sagging with a long exhale. "Maker," she said with a half-smile towards Athenril. She reached behind her to tug at the laces herself, turning away.

Long-fingered hands settled over hers.

She didn't jerk away like before, but she did still, breath catching.

"Mistress," Athenril murmured close to her ear, "should allow me the honor." Bethany felt her pulse quicken, her cheeks flaring from pink to crimson. "Else Pria might feel worse, or be punished, if somebody glimpses you undressing yourself."

"O-oh." The thought should have been sobering. Instead, it barely registered with her except to make her doubt Athenril's intentions as her clever fingers worked their way down the taut laces of her gown. It had been easier in Cumberland. Bethany had dressed and undressed herself, while Athenril waited. Now-

Athenril's hands left the small of her back to settle on her bare shoulders, and Bethany had to close her eyes and bite her lip.

"Don't worry about our budget," Athenril murmured. "You'll need three robes, minimum. With any luck, you'll be given more as gifts by magisters looking to win the favor of the lovely new player to their game. So for now, pick things that are in style, and that you like. We'll wait to have them made for you. You'll be able to get more settled with Tevinter life that way, and I'll have a chance to wait to hear from my contact in Minrathous."

As she spoke, her hands - warm, lovely hands - skimmed down over her shoulders, fingers hooking into the neckline of her dress. Bethany looked down at herself, watching as Athenril began to slip the fabric down. What could have been quick and efficient was slow and methodical. She shivered.

"Athenril?" she breathed.

"Yes?" Athenril responded, and it sounded so close to a purr that Bethany lost the strength of will to ask her to step away, or to ask her what she thought she was doing.

Instead, she fumbled for words and finally settled on, "Where will we be staying?"

"Another inn," Athenril said as the silk fell away from Bethany's breasts, left covered only by a thinner band than she usually preferred. It allowed for the low neckline of the dress, but now it made her flush with how little it covered.

"With Ivarius?" she asked, barely breathing.

"Yes. The inns here have rooms with servant's quarters. He'll sleep there." Her hands dropped to Bethany's waist, warm palms against skin, and Bethany bit hard on her lip to keep from whimpering.

"And you?"

"The bed should be big enough for two."

 _Oh Maker_.

She wondered, not for the first time, if part of Athenril's grand scheme was to drive her mad. It certainly seemed to be working. As Athenril's hands slid over her hips, as she dropped to one knee behind Bethany to hold her skirts low enough that she could step free, Bethany decided that the smuggler had to know what she was doing. The only question was if she meant to tease or invite.

Bethany swallowed and stepped free, hugging her arms around herself.

"Athenril-"

There was a short tap on the screen, and Bethany's question died in her throat. She turned her head as another woman entered, an elegant lady in rich wine fabric, her blonde hair pinned back in complex curls. She fought against her blush as Athenril retreated with a momentarily quirked brow, dress gathered in her arms.

The woman inclined her head slightly. "Lady...?" the woman asked, canting her head.

"Bethany," she said, taking a breath. "My name is Lady Bethany."

* * *

It was amazing what a hot bath could do for the soul.

But for the mind, the quiet as she sank into the scented water gave her too much room to think. In the wagons she had been able to think of Tevene or of propriety, even when Ivarius wasn't there. Here, though, in a hammered copper tub in water that steamed and smelled of lavender, all her mind could turn to was the woman sitting just on the other side of the screen.

She sank head under the water and wished the thoughts away.

They had left the shop with three sets of robes on order, in varying jewel tones. Athenril had watched as Bethany tried on each sample. She'd tried to ignore it and had, blessedly, succeeded for the most part. Talking about cut and color, being led out to the main room to feel swatches of each fabric - it had been almost relaxing, and far moreso than the dress shop in Cumberland. She could almost imagine her mother there beside her helping to pick the dress she would wear when coming out to society.

Wrong society, she thought as she surfaced again, running her hands over her sodden curls.

Because every time she had fallen into something almost comfortable, she had glimpsed Pria or remembered Ivarius, and the guilt had been almost overwhelming. She remembered Fenris's snapping comments, the details that Marian had mentioned once or twice. Then, it was almost preferable to think of Athenril and her gaze that seemed too heated and too impassive all at once. But that had led to her cheeks burning and her heart thumping, and she'd simply focused on whatever fabric or string of beads was being presented to her.

Now she only had the distraction of warm water on her dusty skin, but that held its own problems. Where before she had had conversation and something outside of herself to distract herself with, now she could only go between how uncomfortable the day had been and how uncomfortable she was now with Athenril only a few feet away.

And soon enough, after they'd eaten, Athenril would climb into bed and Bethany would have to settle in next to her, and she wasn't sure she could do it again with the dream she had had last time.

No, she had to broach the topic somehow. She tried to remember anything Isabela had said about how to approach another woman. All she came up with was  _good for six things_. Scrubbing at her arms, Bethany frowned. She supposed it would be the same as a man approaching a woman - but her only familiarity there was with Carver's courtship (if it could be called such) of Peaches, stories of how her mother had met her father, stories of people she had never known, and how men had hollered at Isabela down at the docks.

None of it was any help.

Another dunk beneath the surface and Bethany made herself climb from the tub, groping for the towel. She had stayed in so long (hiding, she could admit that she had been hiding) that her hands had gone pruned and the water was only warm instead of scalding. But Athenril hadn't noticed, or hadn't said anything, and so Bethany just dried herself and pulled on the bathing coat left with the bath tub, belting it at the waist. She didn't particularly want to don her dress again, and her traveling clothes were being washed and the robes would be another week.

"Athenril?"

"Ah, good. I'd begun to worry you'd fallen asleep in there." Bethany could hear the smile in her voice. Did that meant they were growing closer?

"No. I was just..."

Bethany trailed off as she came around the screen. Athenril was sitting at the writing desk by the door, legs drawn up onto the cushioned seat with her. She had changed from supple leather to a loose shirt.

Her hair was down.

Bethany couldn't remember ever seeing the woman with her hair down. The night they had slept side by side, Athenril had braided her hair back. It seemed  _intimate_ , and Bethany found herself averting her eyes.

"I was just thinking. That's all."

"You certainly do a lot of it. What about?" She leaned back in her seat, and when Bethany risked a glance back to her, she found her watching.

Deep breaths.

"Just... about today."

Athenril waved a hand. "Don't worry about it."

Bethany blinked. "Don't..."

Don't worry about it? About Athenril undressing her and making her body nearly dance with attraction? Bethany frowned.

"About me and Ivarius. Don't worry. We are both capable of acting," Athenril said, rising from the chair and stretching. "You have to stop seeming awkward when you give us orders. You'll be able to get away with some hesitance, since we're not trying to pass you off as native Tevinter, but..." She shrugged.

"Oh," Bethany said.

"We can take it," Athenril assured her, then looked back to the desk. "So, word from my contact was already waiting when we got here. As soon as your robes are ready, we'll be ready to move. Have you decided how much you want to be in on this?"

This wasn't a conversation she'd planned on having in a thin robe. Granted, she didn't often plan on having conversations in any state of undress. But this one she had pointedly avoided for the whole trip.

She simply didn't know her answer.

Athenril's lips tightened into a thin line. "You need to decide, Bethany. Another week and a half from here and we reach Minrathous. I haven't pressed it because I know you're still not fully sold on any of this, but you either go in blind or go in knowing everything. It's too risky to bring you in once things are moving."

Bethany swallowed. "Do you trust me to know?"

"Yes."

"That I'll be able to act to the magisters that I know nothing?" She shifted uncomfortably. "If they torture me-"

Athenril had crossed the space between them by the time her voice cracked. She didn't touch, but she did duck her head to catch Bethany's lowered gaze.

"They won't," she said. "I'll make sure of it."

"And against a magister, what could you hope to do?"

"Run very, very fast. With you in tow." Athenril smiled lopsidedly, and she reached out to cup Bethany's cheek. It was an unexpected but dearly appreciated gesture of support and Bethany leaned into it, reaching up to lightly touch Athenril's knuckles, all earlier awkwardness forgotten for just a moment.

"You promise?" she whispered.

"I promise." Her smile turned wider, and then she let her hand drop and took a step back. "And," she said, "the magisters aren't often directly concerned with the spice trade. It's more a military affair, when it goes outside of merchants-only channels."

"That's reassuring," Bethany said with a nervous laugh.

"Just trust me, darling." She thought she saw the smuggler wink. "And tell me if you want in. I could really use you as more than a distraction."

"You could?"

"Of course."

Bethany found herself smiling in turn. "You really think so?"

Athenril nodded, then went to her pack. She tossed a shirt back in Bethany's direction. "In case you want something beside that robe until your clothes are clean."

Bethany caught it, fingers winding into the thin wool. "Thank you."

"No problem." She dropped back into her seat at the desk. "I'm going to pen my answer to my contact, and you can think on getting involved, okay?"

"Okay."

Bethany dipped back behind the screen. She had a pair of smalls hanging on the edge of the tub to dry, and while she shimmied into them, she turned over the request. Whatever else the smuggler thought of her, Athenril trusted her.

Or could use her, but she tried not to think like that.

Letting her robe drop, she pulled Athenril's shirt over her head. It was a tight fit; the elf's shoulders were narrow and her chest much smaller. Her hair darkened the fabric with spots of water as she tugged it into place. She was lucky Athenril favored loose shirts, though loose was a determinedly relative term.

Athenril trusted her, and wouldn't going in blind be more dangerous? It would certainly leave her more wary and on edge when she didn't know what to fear. Marian had gotten her into so many scraps in the last year that Bethany had a small sense, behind even her worst nerves, of some kind of immortality.

She stepped out into the room proper again and said, "Tell me. I want in."

"There's my girl," Athenril said, glancing up from where she was penning her missive.

 _My girl_. Bethany found herself tugging on the hem of her borrowed shirt, before climbing onto the bed and sitting with her knees drawn up. Wrapping her arms around her knees stretched the fabric tight across her shoulders. With the decision made and Athenril's attention elsewhere for the moment, her mind dove straight back to where it had been in the bath.

Athenril trusted her, but the rest-

"Athenril?"

"I'll explain after I'm finished writing this letter," she said, this time not looking up or stopping her quill for more than one of Bethany's staccato heartbeats.

"It's not that," Bethany said, quickly, before she lost the nerve or the thread of thought.

"Can it wait?" Her voice was harsher now than it had been just minutes before, and Bethany winced. Her demeanor was directly tied to the work to be done. What had she said? That she and Ivarius were consummate actors, or something like it?

And in the space of a breath her confidence fractured. The touches in the wagon, in the dress shop, her words on the edge of the Silent Plain- even the slow path of her hands that afternoon. All of it gained Bethany's rapt attention... and she should have guessed that it was all for that end, even though Bethany had never seen the woman flirt to gain the upper hand. With others, Athenril was removed, just arrogant enough and just comfortable enough. And with Bethany-

Well, she was exactly the same, wasn't she, except for a few well-timed touches?

She was staring at her fingers laced together held out beyond her knees when the chair scraped against the floor. "There," Athenril said, and Bethany looked up only reluctantly. "What was it you needed, darling?"

"I..." She took a breath and searched for something new to ask. Ivarius- no, she didn't want to have that conversation. The newest fabrics from Rivain? Types of  _beads_?

She was doomed.

The mattress bowed as Athenril settled a knee onto it, leaning in to catch Bethany's laced hands in one of her own.

"Bethany?"

"What do you think of me?"

She looked up and met Athenril's eyes. She couldn't make sure that she wouldn't lie, of course, but it was- a start.

A bad start. Athenril didn't smile, instead looking down at where her fingers loosely curled around Bethany's. Bethany's heart sank in turn. She pulled her hands back, but stopped when Athenril's grip tightened.

"Bad question?" she asked, trying to laugh it off for the two of them. Athenril only responded by winding her fingers with Bethany's.

She swallowed around the swiftly growing lump in her throat. The elf still wasn't smiling, but her touch was insistent. Bethany loosened her fingers to allow Athenril's in, biting at her lower lip to keep an apology from bubbling out.

Athenril finally smiled, just a small upwards twitch at the corners of her mouth.

"Too nervous," Athenril said. "Too uncertain of yourself and your place. You rely on my guidance."

"You brought me here. Of course I do," she said, voice hoarse and cheeks growing warm from shame.

"And you do stand up to me on occasion. I appreciate that."

"Shouldn't you want your tools to obey you?" It came out more bitterly than intended, and she regretted it an instant later, pulling her hands towards her again. Again, Athenril stopped her.

"Is that how you think I see you?" Her tone wasn't mocking or sharp. It was soft, and she tugged on Bethany's hands, pulling one closer to her so that she could take it in both hands and begin massaging at the heel of palm.

"I- isn't that how I should think you see me?" Her voice was cracking. Maker, her voice was cracking. She was doing an entirely rotten job of being subtle about the whole thing. But Athenril's touch was soothing, and she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

"It misses quite a lot," Athenril murmured. "I told you, back in Kirkwall - a woman like you deserves to see the world, and to not hide, at least for a while, what she is. I'm using you, yes. But I'm using you and not some other mage because of who your sister is, and because I trust you, and because traveling with you has been more than enjoyable." Athenril smiled, a full and undeniable one this time. "That's a little more than a tool, isn't it?"

Bethany stared. "Really?" she breathed, and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

"On my honor," Athenril said with a wink.

"You're not lying?"

"Not to you, darling. There's no need to." Her smile grew to a grin.

Bethany had to fight down her riotous nerves, but when they were quelled, she felt a calmness take its place that, if not entire, was a start. Her lips began to curl in something other than an embarrassed smile.

She took a deep breath and said, "So, tell me about this job."


	5. Chapter 5

"First we get close to a magister."

Athenril stretched out along the bed, hands behind her head, one knee bent and her other ankle propped on her thigh. Bethany watched her and nearly crawled across the mattress to her. Instead, she scooted back along the bed until she was sitting somewhere in line with Athenril's waist.

"Any magister?"

"No, our contact has requested a particular one. He apparently will put us in just the right position."

"Would that it were as easy as picking the first one who was nice to us..." Bethany sighed, imagining all the travails of getting a particular person to notice her.

"Hardly," Athenril said, chuckling. Bethany looked back to her again, lifting her brows in question. Athenril shrugged. "It means we have a single target. Easier to figure out an approach this way. Ivarius has never heard of this man, but my contact has put him forward as young and only just finding his feet."

Bethany frowned, planting her hands behind her and leaning back. "And did your contact say he was lenient on his slaves?"

"Not mentioned, but it doesn't matter.  _You_  are our ostensible master. You control how we're treated. End of story."

 _Capable of acting_. That was how Athenril had put it. Fifteen minutes ago she had been so caught up in herself, so unprepared for that conversation, that she had let it pass.

But this time, it made her squirm. This time, she pushed.

"I'm not... really comfortable with that, you know," Bethany said, looking down at her knees. Actors they might be, but that didn't ease her soul. "Even today at the shop-"

"Today at the shop you were too soft. I told you already." Athenril pushed herself up and touched Bethany's chin, guiding her to look at the elf. Her expression was firm, but when she spoke again her voice had that edge of softness that nearly demanded trust. "... Your reluctance is why I'm far happier with the idea of you playing this role than an unknown mage or a luck of the draw magister," she said, and Bethany had to breathe deeply to keep from curling in on herself.

"Then why did you plan it that way originally?" she asked, doing her best to stare Athenril down.

"Convenience. Dedication to getting the job done. But," she said, sitting cross-legged facing Bethany, "this is another reason why I was so determined that you come along. Do you see? Another person might jump at the chance to control me. Another person might deep down think I really am just a dirty knife-ear."

She flushed hot. "I-!"

Athenril nodded, a finger settling over Bethany's lips. "I know. And that's why when I tell you that you were too soft, you need to believe me, and to listen to me."

"I won't." She clenched her jaw. If she was truly the better option, now that the plan couldn't be changed, she would do her best to be the  _best_  option.

Athenril only blinked placidly, one brow quirking in place of a sharp refusal.

She squared her shoulders. "I'm not going to be worse to you. I don't care if you say you can 'take it'," Bethany said, voice as firm as she could manage. The thought turned her stomach and made her think, unavoidably, of Fenris. Of the stories she'd heard of Tevinter. "What about Ivarius? You see this as some game, but he-"

"Can tell me if there's a problem. It's not your responsibility," she said, sharply. "We have already had this conversation, Bethany. I thought you wanted in on this?"

"I-"

"I am not asking you to be cruel. I am only asking you not to treat us as if we control you, which is what you came close to doing today. Do you understand that difference?"

She bowed her head, flushing deeper with shame. "Yes," she murmured.

"Good. Trust me to tell you if you go too far, and we'll be fine."

Bethany nodded. It seemed to satisfy Athenril and she sat back, hands dropping to her knees. It took several long breaths before Bethany trusted herself to speak again, and several more before she didn't feel as if she were about to die from mortification.

"So, we find this magister," she said at last, running a hand through her damp hair and beginning to twist it into a braid. She let her fingers heat with a little touch of magic, drying her hair by degrees as she went.

 _When in Tevinter_.

Athenril's expression eased and she relaxed, leaning back and smiling once more. "And get into his household, yes. That might be the longest part of the job."

"And then?"

"And then I wait for word from my contact. She'll have the information on the rest of the job. What I know for sure is that she needs something done that I have the talents for, and that in return she'll divert some of her supply of spice to my men."

"So what do I do? I can't just... sit by a window and count the hours."

"No." Athenril pursed her lips. "No... it all depends on what sort of man this Maecenas is, I suppose."

"That's his name?"

"Yes. Gnaeus Maecenas, but he will go by Maecenas almost certainly. From what I've been told, he doesn't have too much focus on him - enough that his position is secure, but not so much that it's at risk again, if you follow?"

"I do." She split her hair into two sections once it felt not wet but merely damp. Better to keep her hands busy with this than with reaching for a kerchief that wasn't there or rubbing her fingers together until actual flames danced over them.

"And as for what you'll do..."

"Go to parties?" Bethany smiled as she twirled the two bunches together. "See plays? Take boat rides...?"

"Go to mass sacrifice rituals," Athenril said, and Bethany's expression fell.

"I-"

"It's a possibility," Athenril said, reaching out to clasp her on the shoulder.

"I'd rather not-"

"If he asks, you'll be hard-put to decline without making a scene. So just... close your eyes and think of Ferelden, should it happen. Go with it."

Bethany shook her head but couldn't think of an objection. It was a reality, like Athenril said. A tragic one, a horrific one, but a reality all the same. She took a deep breath, then tried a smile again. "Well, let's hope for more parties than rituals, yes?"

"I'd drink to that," Athenril said with a bark of laughter, then pulled away, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and standing. "And on that note, I think it's about time to have the bath water taken out and dinner brought up, wouldn't you say?"

"I think that sounds lovely," Bethany said, and it did. Really. Even if it did put them one meal closer to the inevitable.

* * *

In the end, they only stayed in Val Dorma another four nights. The robes, elaborate things in rich, deep jewel tones to set off her pale skin and pointless, unattached collars to make her feel better without her kerchief around her throat, were delivered by Pria, though Bethany barely caught a glimpse of her before she was gone again.

And then it was back into the wagon, with Ivarius sitting across from her and running through every bit of Tevene that she knew, over and over again until she could barely think a word without trying to translate it one way or the other.

The road had at least grown smoother now that they were in the Imperium proper. There were fewer bumps, and she could even stand and practice hand gestures, ways of moving, ways of looking. Ivarius watched with his usual mixture of acceptance and disgust, evident in how he would shake his head or look away for a moment. He ran her ragged, and she wondered if maybe it was his way of coping with being so close to home.

They were three days out of Minrathous when she finally worked up the nerve to ask. They barely spoke of things beyond her lessons, and when she had wondered at things before, he had shut her down with a look or a derisive snort. But three days out and she could think of questions only he could answer, questions that she needed the answers to. So as he rose to leave, she reached out, stopping just short of taking his slender wrist.

"Ivarius-"

He glared and she nearly backed off. But then she squared her shoulders. "I have a few other questions."  _If you don't mind_  went unsaid; she had to seem certain. Determined.

Slowly, he sat back down. " _Loqueve†_."

She flushed at his Tevene. It unsteadied her. Had that been the idea? Or was he simply still thinking in his native tongue, after a day spent practicing it? Whatever the reason, she couldn't respond in kind, so she cleared her throat and said, "What's it actually like? Minrathous, I mean, under all the formalities?"

"Dirty," he said without hesitation. "Cruel," he added with a sneer.

"But you're going back?"

He eyed her coolly. "My reasons for going back are my own," he said, tense on the edge of his seat, ready to rise as soon as the conversation was over. "But coin and security can be a great temptation for a man who's never known either."

"I can imagine," she said, and she could, because while she had had her father for most of her life- it still hadn't been a safe existence, not at all, and there was more to this trip or Marian's than the idea of  _comfort_. There was luxury on offer, too. And she was there, wasn't she?

But Ivarius only shook his head.

"No," he said, "you can't."

"But the templars-"

"Chased you, yes, I'm certain. But even if you'd lived in one of those Circles, could you have been killed at any moment? For fun or for use or out of anger or boredom? I'm sure your templars at least have paperwork to sign before they can do that."

Her cheeks grew hot. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes, you did." He ran a hand through his curling pale hair. "Just- give it up. I appreciate your  _concern_ ," he said, though his tone didn't seem to support it much at all. "Athenril has relayed it. I'll be fine. I'll hate every minute of it, but it's a far cry better than being there without somebody to guard me, I suppose."

Bethany nodded, and swallowed. "Of course. I... is there anything I should know? About what I've gotten myself into?"

"Just that Minrathous isn't a city of dreams for anybody. Not even the magisters." He sighed. "And that you'll do fine. I worried that they would eat you alive, but you've got just enough spine in you."

"Oh. Thank you?"

"It's the best compliment a mage is going to get from me," he said, pushing himself up. "Take what you can. That's my other piece of advice. Eyes and ears always open. You find something you can use, take it, or somebody else will get it first and use it against you."

Bethany nodded again.

He smiled grimly at her, reaching up to brace himself with a hand against the covering support beam. "Don't ask me anything else."

"I won't."

" _Bona puella††_ ," he said with a nod of his head, and then he slipped from the back of the wagon.

* * *

Minrathous.

She would have liked to see the approach. She would have liked to walk that final mile along the gleaming road. But Athenril had made it clear that she had to sit, fully dressed in robes and regalia, in the covered wagon until they were at the city walls, and then she had climbed into a hired palanquin and waited for them to arrive at the gates to the home of Maecenas.

It was impossible to keep still. Four slaves (loaned, she supposed, but she had no real understanding of the arrangement) bore her on their shoulders. She was surrounded by lacquered, embossed wood and fine curtains. She was painted, courtesy of Athenril, and she had only a piece of candied ginger to chew on to steady her nerves. Her robes seemed too heavy, the skirts too confining, even though they were made for the early autumn weather which remained warm in this part of Thedas. It was just, she told herself, that they were unfamiliar. It was just that she wasn't used to sitting and waiting while primped like a dollmaker's prized toy.

Her kerchief was not around her neck, but wound instead around her fingers. She passed it through her grip over and over, the soft sound of fabric on skin somewhat soothing. She would have preferred to wear it, but Athenril had said it would stand out too much, that it was out of style.  _Out of style_. Out of style wouldn't have mattered in Kirkwall.

Maker, was she homesick for  _Kirkwall_?

They had left Kirkwall over two months ago. The thought was sobering and she tried not to let it frighten her. Two months had seemed to slip by so quickly, between awkward lessons and the changing scenery. She'd had two months of not needing to run from templars, of barely needing to be wary at the few checkpoints they had passed.

Was this what it was like to be normal?

And how strange, to be feeling  _normal_  even if only for a second while she could hear the sounds of the Minrathous streets just beyond the curtains. Here she was a magister-in-training, hardly normal at all, an affront against the Chantry and the Maker. Here, she was a liar and a cheat.

Here, she was a woman, barely out of pinafores it sometimes seemed, wearing clothing that felt too large for her even though it was tailored impeccably. She took a deep breath.

The palanquin slowed and she reached for the nearest curtain, edging it open and peering outside. They had drawn up to a building ringed with a high, red wall. She could see gilding at the top, and beyond it a slightly taller building, gleaming white in the Tevinter style she was most acquainted with. They came to a halt before an ornate gate where two elves in armor stood.

Athenril moved forward, hunched in a permanent bow.

"This servant's Mistress, Lady Bethany recently of Ferelden, requests to speak with Magister Gnaeus Maecenas," Athenril said, and Bethany swallowed at the sound of her voice, so carefully controlled. She had exchanged her more ornate armor for something far simpler, and she waited now with the back of her neck exposed to the blinding sun and to any stray weapon.

Bethany closed the curtain and her eyes, leaning back and taking deep breaths.

There was muttering outside, words she might have been able to catch and understand if she had tried. She didn't. Instead, she focused on how she shivered, and she carefully went through a litany of small spells, spells of focus, to check against her nerves.

It would only be a month or two, and then they would be on the road back home, she told herself. A month of parties, and of not needing to worry about templars. She just had to keep hold of herself.

"That which is best in me, not that which is most base," she whispered. And then with a faint smile she added, "Look at your little girl now, father. All the way to Minrathous."

There was a soft rap on the side of the palanquin, and she started forward. She struggled to compose herself as the curtain was twitched barely aside. She could make out Athenril, barely, and lifted her chin.

Athenril turned toward her for just a moment and caught her gaze. She winked. And then she let the curtain fall back in place as with a slight tilt that made Bethany's jaw clench, the box was lowered to the ground. Bethany braced her hands on her knees and then, with a final nod to herself and a glance up to where the sun would be, accompanied by a whispered prayer, she stood and stepped out onto the streets of Minrathous.

Ivarius waited at her right, kneeling, and Athenril at her left, standing ready but with her eyes averted. Every other face was unfamiliar and bowed. She swallowed, turning to look at the grand estate. The walls were high and long, the gates intricately carved and imposingly heavy, dark hard wood and steel. She squeezed the fabric of the scarf still around her fingers, then tucked it up into her sleeve.

The palanquin was lifted again once she was a few steps free of it, carried off to a discreet distance. She looked around her. The streets spreading to all sides were not as wide as she would have thought. They stood on what might have been a main avenue, but it was nowhere near as expansive as the plazas that made up Hightown. And branching off were narrow side streets, twisting and winding more than she had seen in any other city. Buildings towered, built atop one another, and where she had imagined lyrium-laced stone, only some of the buildings were made of marble or even granite. Far more were brick or wood, and though they were well-appointed and decorated, they were not the sort of grandeur she had expected.

Perhaps they were simply in the wrong part of the city for such things.

She turned to face the gate once more as she heard approaching footsteps on the other side. She resisted the urge to tug at her skirts. The robes she wore were the color of wine, the fabric a brocade with patterns in threads only slightly darker than the rest. It was one of the simpler styles popular, with no bared stomach. Instead, it opened in teardrop shapes down along her spine, larger at first and then progressively smaller until the smallest was centered just above the flare of her hips. The front neckline mirrored it, sloping low over her shoulders and breasts and opening in a teardrop keyhole just a few inches below. The skirt draped along the bias, curving and clinging to her until it flared at her knees, and the whole thing was trimmed with pale fur and gold embroidery, beads along every opening and at her wrists.

Bethany tried to feel comfortable, to exude confidence, as she held her hands before her and quickly tied a knot in her kerchief to secure it. Her trembling fingers had just managed the blind knot when the gates opened.

She held her breath.

Waiting on the other side were at least six slaves in vibrant livery, but her eyes slid over them to the central figure, a tall, slender man with dark olive skin and curling black hair, pulled into a loose tail at the nape of his neck. His robes bared nearly his whole chest, save for what the collar and drapes of sheer fabric at his shoulders covered. His waist was cinched under layers of iridescent fabric and golden chains, and he seemed to float an inch off the ground. She couldn't see his feet but the hem of his robes didn't quite brush the stone as he walked.

Shaking in full, she touched her fingertips to her left hip and bent at the knee, head lowered.

"Magister," she said in greeting, and hazarded a glance up when he came to a halt.

He was smiling.

"So you're the little mage from Ferelden?" he asked, and his voice was smooth and richly accented. "Go ahead, straighten up. I hear you have a request of me. It isn't often I get requests from foreigners, you know." He curled his fingers and she rose as if compelled.

 _Oh Maker_ , she thought, staring at his hands. He wasn't using blood magic already, was he?

But his hand showed no spot of blood, and when she faltered before speaking, he chuckled. "Would you prefer to sit?"

"I wouldn't dare impose," she said, looking up to him at last.

"Not an imposition at all. I've been expecting you - how do you find Tevinter food? I have a small  _prandium†††_  laid out for us, if you like...?"

She flushed, fighting the urge to look to Athenril. She had told her that Maecenas would know of her, that Athenril had sent a letter in her name, but-

But it was best not to cause a scene, so with her hands still over her hip, she dipped at the knee again. "I would be honored and delighted, magister."

"Maecenas," he supplied, and beckoned with an open hand, gesturing by him. "Come."

 _Maker preserve_ , she thought.

And then she followed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † - Loqueve, "Speak."
> 
> †† - Bona puella, "Good girl."
> 
> ††† - Prandium, lunch


	6. Chapter 6

The garden he led her to was as expansive as it was surprising, an oasis in the middle of a cramped city. The whole estate seemed just the same; beyond the scarlet walls were broad paths, open spaces, clear views of the sky above. The noise seemed to die away, and she wondered if it was by nature or by magic.

The doorways inside, at least the ones between spaces and not into the gleaming white house itself, were all round portals, open with no signs of gates. Stepping through them felt far freer than she had expected. She had thought that being in a magister's estate would have made her feel trapped, imprisoned, like a fancier version of the Gallows. She had prepared herself for that.

But settling down onto a cushioned couch, surrounded by carefully tended trees and smaller plants that she felt sure bloomed beautifully in the spring, she felt instead buoyed. Perhaps that was the danger - perhaps she would grow too light and float away, losing herself. And so she looked to Athenril, hoping that would ground her, Athenril in all of her armor with her blades still on her. Maecenas hadn't asked for her to give them up, and it was reassuring.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.

No- down that path lay too much lightness. Her eyes went to Athenril's slenderness and not to her groundedness, and Bethany had to refocus. Ivarius settling on the stone by her feet brought her back enough, and she looked to Maecenas.

He had settled on a couch much like her own, and was watching her over the table between them. He didn't look to the young elf girl who knelt by the table and began to pour tea into two small cups.

"So. Bethany, yes?" he asked, and she nodded. "Shy little thing, aren't you."

"Nervous would be more accurate," she said, blushing and swallowing. The tea girl turned to her and with her head bowed offered up the cup. "Oh, thank you-" she said, then winced, then just focused on taking the small cup.

"I'm still getting used to Tevinter life," she confessed over the rim of it.

"I can imagine it could take some time," Maecenas said, and accepted his own cup with no acknowledgment of the girl. "It took a bit for me to adjust, and I was born here."

"Adjust?"

"My parents didn't keep slaves," he said with a shrug, then took a sip of his tea. She watched the way he held his cup, then did her best to mimic him. "They weren't magisters, either of them. Not mages, even. Precarious existence in some ways, but they made the best of it. So when I came into my powers and made a life for myself, it took... a short while to grow used to it."

There was something else behind his words. She could see it, or thought she could, in how he didn't quite look at her, in how his smile faltered. But she couldn't place it. Was he merely being kind, to let her feel as if she fit in? Was he baiting her into making a mistake?

Or was he ashamed, somehow?

She took another sip of tea, this time focusing on the flavor instead of on him. She had to still herself, or she would crawl out of her skin. So she closed her eyes and inhaled as she drank.

It was nothing like any tea she had ever tasted. It wasn't bitter in the slightest, or weak, or too strong. It had the perfect balance of a faint sweetness to a rich backbone, flavor to ease of drinking, and when she opened her eyes she looked at the girl who had served it.

Had she made it, too? She didn't know, but Bethany offered her a smile all the same before looking back to Maecenas, who was watching her with what seemed like interest and not censure.

"There's nothing like this in Ferelden," she said.

"The tea?" he asked.

"No, I- well, yes. The tea, too. But... any of this. It's very different."

"But I see you have slaves of your own now," he said, nodding to Ivarius, and then to Athenril.

"This is the extent of my- household," she said, reaching out to set the nearly empty cup down. "Just the two. And if I'm to be honest..."

"Please," he invited with another open-palmed wave of his hand.

"It's to blend in, more than anything."

She caught a glimpse of Athenril stiffening in the corner of her vision.

"Blend in?" he asked, canting his head.

Bethany nodded. "And to help with these robes. They're much more- elaborate. But without a house for them to care for, and without enemies to guard against - may the Maker keep it that way - I'm afraid they're more for show than for easing my way."

He hummed thoughtfully, reaching out to pluck a candied fruit from a plate. He rolled it between thumb and forefinger, considering. "Is that why you've come to me, then?"

"Excuse me?"

"For a home, temporary as it might be? You can ask me directly, if you like. Because if  _I'm_  to be honest, I hardly care for this dancing around everybody does outside the walls of my house. Speak freely, Bethany." His smile never wavered, not even when he popped the fruit into his mouth.

She stared, and searched for words. "I- oh."

Athenril had warned her to expect a slow courting. This seemed far more like an invitation, and Bethany shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with being stretched out in front of him. Ivarius had taught her to never move from her side, and it took all her will not to roll onto her back and stare up at the sky above.

He said nothing. Instead he reached for another fruit, and then nudged the plate they were on closer to her. Wordlessly she reached out and took one, though her lips were pursed and pressed tight.

"Well, yes," she said at last, not quite able to look him in the eye. "I would like that. But it seems a great deal to ask."

"I enjoy company," he said with a soft laugh. "And I also enjoy the company of mages who are not like so many of my peers. They're all bound up tight with ambition, making them not just dangerous but  _boring_. And a woman and two slaves are not such a burden on me."

"You've only just met me," she said, brow furrowing. In Kirkwall, this would be the set-up for a con. And yet this was what they wanted, wasn't it? It grew harder to resist looking to her 'bodyguard', and she finally took a bite of the fruit.

It was delicious, warmed by the sun and only a little sweeter than it would have been fresh. Her eyes closed for a moment.

"Should we play at this courting a while longer, then?" he asked, and she opened her eyes again to see him winking. She flushed and nearly choked.

"Courting," she said, helplessly, once she had managed to swallow.

"Negotiating. What have you. Here, try one of these, too." He nudged another plate towards her, but she waved it off.

"Am I missing something?" she asked, blinking rapidly. "Is everybody about to start pointing and laughing at me? Here I was thinking I would have to go begging at half the estates in Minrathous-"

"Half the estates in Minrathous would have you run out of the city for daring it. But you're a smart girl - you found me." He shrugged.

"I don't understand," she said.

"I don't ask you to," he replied, and  _that_ , at least, felt  _Tevinter_  to her.

She reached out and took one of the small slices of thin bread smeared with some sort of fruit paste. It was more savory than sweet, and she nibbled at it as she tried not to jiggle her foot anxiously.

Did she say yes? Or was Athenril just behind her signaling frantically with a wiggling of her nose that this was all a wash?

Bethany took a deep breath and looked back to Athenril. "And what say you, Athenril?" she asked. "How do you feel about staying here?"

"Your servant finds nothing objectionable, Mistress," Athenril said, and there was no quick frown or shake of her head.

Well, then.

Bethany nodded, slowly, and looked back to Maecenas. "So what are your terms?" she asked. "If we're negotiating, that is."

* * *

His terms were simple enough; he asked for her confidence and discretion in any matters he shared with her, and asked for a demonstration of her spell-weaving ability. Standing in a magister's garden not an hour after meeting him and doing her best to cast with some skill and delicacy was a trial, but her father had trained her well. She tried to imagine it was him watching, and it helped temper the strangeness of working magic not for defense or in small ways to ease her family's life, but to show off.

At least she wasn't in the middle of a street. That she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to do, even veiled and protected.

She had no real idea what Maecenas was looking for, beyond maybe just proof that she was as she said she was. Maybe he wanted an interesting mage for a house guest, but if she qualified, she couldn't explain why. Still, when she was done, he thanked her for the show and asked if she would like to be led to where she would be staying.

Bethany nodded and bowed, and thanked him in her best Tevene. It made him smile.

Beyond that, there was only the agreement that she would accompany him to parties and functions when invited, and keep herself to a particular section of the estate. It was a large section, with a secondary building set aside for guests, surrounded by its own, short walls. There was art everywhere, more elaborate and more intimate than the towering, blinding grandeur of Hightown. She was peering at a carving of what looked like a giant, long-eared cow when Athenril came up to her side.

"It's an elephant," the elf said, pointing to the long nose that, seconds before, Bethany had thought was a vine. "They ride them here, sometimes."

"Really?" she asked. Athenril's footsteps must have been audible, on some level, because she only had to swallow down a brief flare of surprise.

The smuggler moved to lean against the wall. "Mmhmm, though not so much right in Minrathous. Still, if we're lucky, maybe a visiting magister will insist on riding one through the streets." Bethany watched as she rolled her shoulders, no doubt revelling in her return to freedom. "Though that will be quite the sight. They're bigger than a horse by far. Bigger, I hear, than a small building."

"You haven't seen one?" she asked, following as Athenril straightened once more and beckoned for her to come along.

"I'm not really interested, unless I'm about to be trampled by one," she said, leading the way along a narrow path that passed a small pavillion and a pond before ending at a normal-sized door. Much less imposing than the great door Maecenas had shown her to. Athenril turned the latch, waited a moment, then pushed it open.

"Welcome home," Athenril said with a smug little smile.

* * *

The interior was just as grand, as artful, as the gardens, and somewhere in the maze of small, cozy rooms with beds raised off the ground on platforms, gauzy fabrics hanging in front of glassed windows, and unearthly scents from little sachets or incense burners resting on window ledges, she lost track of it all. There was simply too  _much_. How could any person, even a magister, afford the labor to produce all of this?

And then she remembered the slaves.

Maecenas had assigned her two of his own, to assist in keeping the little house. Both were young women, one human and one an elf. The human was the younger of the two, a year or two younger than Bethany herself, with long chestnut hair bound up behind her. Her name was Caecilia. The other was an older woman, her pale gold hair shot with silver, named Aurelia.

Ivarius was relieved, at least as far as Bethany could tell. They would do the hard work, and he would hold up walls and make himself look busy without having to do anything himself. He watched the two women with something between suspicion, anger, and pity, then disappeared, likely in search of a drink.

She didn't try to stop him. Better that he felt comfortable and safe, and was never required to actually wait on her. Better that  _none_  of them were, really. At the first opportunity, she excused herself for a bath, but that only led to a production of drawing water and helping her shed her robes, one that would at least end in, she hoped, some solitude.

That the bathing chamber was grander still only added to the headache she felt brewing.

"I'm not made for all of this," she murmured as she shed the light robe, belted only with a thin cord, that one of the slaves - Caecilia - had draped over her shoulders. Set into the floor was a pool, easily waist deep at the center, that steamed with scented water. The floor was tiled. The ceiling-

She closed her eyes with a groan, then focused on just getting into the water.

There would be dinner tonight with Maecenas, no doubt, and then there would be more slaves before her, more elves, more  _humans_  (and that had been a shock, hadn't it?), and more expectations. More finery. Maker, what delicacies might he offer at dinner?

And hadn't Athenril said he was only a middling magister? She couldn't comprehend anything beyond this. It just made no sense.

With her eyes closed and warm water lapping up to her belly as she settled onto one of the pool's low benches, she could almost block it all out. The black of her eyelids gave her a reprieve. How could anybody  _live_  with so much, and still appreciate it all? How could there be time enough? Attention enough? Maker, what was the  _point_?

What she wouldn't give to be back making camp under the stars, Athenril telling stories or sharpening her knives, the moonlight gilding her gold hair.

"Mind if I join you?" Athenril asked, and Bethany let out a little undignified squeak, slipping further below the water. She looked to the door to the chamber. Steam filled much of the room, especially so close to the pool, but she could make out Athenril's figure.

Her still-clothed figure. She took a breath.

"Well," she said, thinking and trying to decide what she wanted, what she could handle. Grandeur was suddenly the least of her worries. She swallowed. "It... it's a big tub."

Athenril laughed. "Is that a yes?"

Bethany gulped down another breath of air, then nodded. "That's a yes."

The sound of fabric and leather being shed made her dunk her head beneath the surface. Being committed to not  _thinking_  about the other woman's intentions was one thing, but ignoring her own interest - that was far harder. And it seemed ill-advised.

Months together had proven that it wasn't about to go away.

She broke the surface with a long inhale, running her hands back over her eyes and scalp, pushing her hair back. It was growing longer, but with the hairstyles she had seen in her short time in Tevinter, that was likely an advantage. She blinked away the water drops on her eyelashes as she heard soft footsteps on the stone.

Athenril appeared through the billowing steam, narrow and lithe and covered in a patchwork of scars.

The smuggler dipped her toes into the water, then lowered herself to the lip of the tub. Bethany watched, transfixed. Beneath the map of scars (some big, some tiny, some clean, some mottled and ragged) was flexing muscle covered in pale skin. The scars were side by side with tattoos, the same blue as the bands around her arms and the lines over her hands. Another band stretched around the upper portion of her left thigh. A ring of blue circled her navel. Bethany caught glimpses of blue on the tops of Athenril's feet, stretching down from slender ankles, and then the woman pushed off the stone and slipped into the water.

The splash brought her back and she turned redder than before. At least she could blame it on the steam. She cleared her throat. "Is it warm enough?"

"More than." Athenril sank down until all but her head and neck were covered, and then she leaned back, dipping her hair into the water as she pulled out the clips holding it. Bethany averted her eyes from the arch of her spine and the line of her throat. It wasn't polite, she told herself, and it was only making things worse.

"Will this- raise questions?" she asked, her voice rasping despite her best effort. "You being in here?"

"No."

She was so sure, always so sure of everything, and Bethany chose that to focus on. Not the slight swell of her breasts, or the memory of hands on her hips. It was certainly more calming. "But if anybody asks-"

"Ladies often keep their favorites close," Athenril said, settling on the bench beside Bethany, only a few hand spans away. Bethany tried not to choke or scoot away. "Whether for confidence, flattery, or... other things. It's your decision how you choose to present this, if it comes up."

"I-"

"But I don't think it will."

Andraste help her, Athenril stretched out a hand and patted her knee.

Deep breaths. She focused on the rise and fall of her chest, and how it moved the waterline along her skin. Soon enough she felt the flush in her cheeks subside, the thought of Athenril's body along hers bury itself back where she'd kept it for months.

"So," Athenril said. "How are you liking your magisterial lifestyle, Lady Hawke?"

She wrinkled her nose. "That's my sister, not me."

Athenril only smirked.

"But I- like it well enough, I guess."

"You guess?"

"How can people live like this?" Bethany asked, leaning back against the wall and looking up to the painted ceiling.

"In comfort?" There was a gentle splash of water, the sound of Athenril moving an arm.

"No," she said. "In luxury."

Athenril hummed thoughtfully, then leaned back as well, shoulder to shoulder. "How can you live in poverty, back in Kirkwall?"

"Well-" Bethany frowned. "I don't like it."

"But you get by every day."

"I'm used to it, I guess."

Athenril huffed a laugh. "Exactly. Whatever you live in day to day is what you grow used to, whether you like it or not. And given the option, you will always seek a little more. Most of us can't get more, though, so it never gets to this level of..."

"Ostentatiousness?"

"I was thinking more ridiculousness. But it's a pretty sort of ridiculousness."

"And you? You're going to be making a lot of money, if your plan works."

"Mm, and it will be legitimate. I can have a house and build a business and nobody will be able to chase me into the sewers. It'll be wonderful. And then I'll get used to it, and want more." She turned her head to face her, and Bethany did the same on instinct. "But you know how I live. A step up will be nice. And if I'm going to want more anyway, might as well want it from a comfortable seat, hm?"

Bethany nodded, slowly. "I think I understand." And then she looked up again. "But Maker's breath, this is just- does he think this is all  _attractive_? I can't see half of it at any one time! There's just too  _much_."

"I'm with you there," Athenril said, and as she spoke her calf bumped Bethany's. Bethany couldn't find it in herself to pull away. "And I'll be glad to get back home. But I'll enjoy it while I can. The wine's good."

Bethany frowned, turning almost fully to her. "You've already been drinking?"

Athenril's smile was lazy, and she shrugged. "Just a little. Testing it, in case you want some before dinner." She winked. "Which is with Maecenas, of course. He's a... rather gracious host."

"You don't trust him," Bethany guessed.

The smuggler shrugged. "I can't decide whether he is very clever or just as he seems - easily amused, warm, curious. That's for you to figure out. You'll be closer to him, privy to more conversations."

"He seems nice enough," Bethany admitted.

"Then dinner should go just fine." Athenril pushed off of the small bench, then bent her head back and combed her hands through her hair. Bethany averted her eyes from the arch of her back, then closed them against the temptation of looking. "You've got two hours to get yourself ready. And just remember - it's perfectly normal to fear, as long as you learn to hide it well."

And then there was the splash of water on tile and the pad of bare feet, and when Bethany opened her eyes again, Athenril was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Bethany tugged at the sleeves of the latest in her parade of robes, a green brocaded thing that was almost too heavy for the climate. She'd tried to argue that she didn't need to change just for dinner, but Ivarius had pointed out that it was customary, and even if she couldn't keep up a rotation of new and wondrous robes for even a week, not even trying would look suspicious.

" _But I'm a poor Fereldan girl!"_ she had protested, all her nervousness lingering from her bath disappearing in an instant of petulant frustration.  _"Where am I getting the money for all of this?"_

 _"Borrowing it,"_ Ivarius replied, flatly. _"Stealing it. Clawing your way to the top with everything you have. Just like finding a place to sleep in Kirkwall."_

After this, though, she was going to put her foot down. Any more, and she'd give up on learning how to move in all these strangely tailored things and begin ripping them to shreds instead. Or lighting them on fire.

A tentatively, cautiously giddy part of her thrilled to the idea of simply burning them with a snap of her fingers.  _I can do that here_.

In fact, she could feel the pulse and throb of magic as she was led to a covered pavillion for the night's meal. It went beyond the hovering glow lights that were dotted across the space like little moons. No, it was Maecenas, lounging and pulling streamers of colored power from the air to entertain himself.

This was Tevinter. Magic was as normal as breathing.

The lightshow dissipated as Maecenas saw her, and he rose with the same genial smile that he had met her with all day. She quickly bent her knees in Tevinter's strangely-flavored curtsey. "Come," he said, gesturing to the low table with its surrounding spread of embroidered pillows. "Sit."

"Do all magisters have so many places to take meals?" she asked, considering the table. It had no obvious place settings. Her nerves nudged her towards the far end of the table (though it wasn't far  _enough_ ) until she saw him cant his head and lift an eyebrow.

She sat down closer to him, self-consciously tucking her legs beneath her and smoothing her skirts over it.

"It depends on how inventive they are, I guess," he said once she had settled. His smile had returned. Somewhere behind her, Athenril took up her post and Ivarius knelt out of sight, ready in case she called on him. Before her, Maecenas waved a hand, a wordless signal. Bethany took a deep breath. "I knew a man, once, who couldn't stand to spend more than a week in one place. He'd move his bedroom all around his house, changing every few days, and as he left one room behind, it would be stripped down to nearly nothing, then built up again wholly new."

"He must have been very rich."

"And very bored," Maecenas said, as the soft slap of bare feet on grass and stone heralded the arrival of his slaves.

Bethany clasped her hands in her lap and looked straight ahead, into the dark beyond the pavillion, as a wine pitcher and cups were placed between them. There were plates of steamed fish, roasted fruits, all sorts of tender morsels that she couldn't begin to name.

And then a young girl set a plate down directly in front of her that looked like-

"Is that a  _mouse_?" Bethany asked.

"Dormouse, yes," Maecenas said. "Why, is there a problem?"

"I-" It was small, and roasted, and at least the head was gone, but its little legs still stuck out, and its belly was full to bursting with- with- she didn't know what, except that it smelled decent but looked horrible. "Um," she said, gladly accepting the cup of wine another slave, this one an older man, poured for her. "It's just that we don't usually  _eat_  mice. Where I'm from."

"Really?" he asked. "Even with your legendarily terrible winters?"

"You mean our poverty?" she asked. He laughed.

"That, too. Well- then allow me to introduce to you one of my favorite delicacies. Roasted dormouse, stuffed with pine nuts and dates."

She eyed it dubiously. "How do I...?"

"Like any other food. You put it in your mouth and chew, then swallow, and try not to choke." He was close to laughing again, this time  _at_  her. She squirmed.

"But the whole thing?"

"The bones are small and soft enough."

Maker, she could just hear Marian laughing. And Isabela. And Varric, and oh but Carver would be on the ground, rolling, because once he'd dropped a mouse in her hair just to watch her scream-

"I, ah- I think I'll leave that for another night."

He waited a moment, as if expecting her to change her mind, and then shrugged. "Very well. I can't make you a red-blooded Minrathon in a single night. I admit defeat."

"There's always two nights. Or three."

"I accept your challenge," he said, and with a grin picked up his own dormouse and bit it clean in half.

* * *

"Can I show you something?"

The sun had set hours ago, and dinner had meandered on far longer than she'd anticipated. She was drowsy now from wine and good food, and she only hummed in question from where she rested propped up against some pillows. Maecenas lounged nearby. The glow lights had come closer, giving them a small haven amidst the dark.

"It's something very new. Experimental. But I think a mage from outside of Tevinter will be able to appreciate it more than any of my colleagues." He lifted one of his well-manicured hands, and a flash of movement from the dark around them deposited a large glass bowl of lyrium at his side. She watched the surface of it dance, silvery blue and glowing in the low light.

"I don't think I've ever seen so much lyrium in one place," she said.

"It's not as easy to get ahold of here as you'd think. Orlais and its Chantry have a stranglehold on the lyrium that comes out of Orzammar. Keeps the supply limited even here. Perhaps especially here." He shrugged, a fluid, rolling thing. He was a very fluid man, she'd found. Isabela would have liked him. He seemed committed to good cheer, or at least an avoidance of ire, and if he wasn't as sparkling a conversationalist as Varric, he at least was in the same realm. She would have liked to know him in a life without all these decorations.

She looked between him and the dish. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Watch," he said, and as he raised the dish to his lips and closed his eyes to slits, she could just make out the sounds of a lute.

The melody grew louder.

Another lute joined in, and then a dulcimer, and soon there was a full minstrels' band playing there in the dark. The music seemed to come from all around them. A foot in front of them both, a light grew from nothing, warm as firelight, before shadows began to flit across it, leaping and ducking until they coalesced into small figures.

She'd seen figures like them before. They looked like the little hide puppets her father had kept in his chest, the one that had ended up sunk to the bottom of the Hafter when they'd moved south when she was just a girl. He'd had people and animals, the hide scraped thin or left thick to make patterns and draw their features. If you held them up in front of the firelight, they were like little animated drawings, dancing and leaping.

Maecenas's little picture show continued on, and now she could see two figures in robes. A dragon crested the silhouette of a mountain. She reached out towards the tableau, but before she could touch it, it fell away to nothing.

"Maker," she breathed, only distantly hearing the fade of the music and the clink of Maecenas's bowl being set down.

"I can do more," Maecenas said. "Give me enough concentration and enough lyrium, and I can let you see a forest, real enough to wander through."

Slowly, she turned to look at him.

"Is it-" Her heart began to quail. "Is it blood magic?" She hadn't felt a tug at her mind, but now that she thought about it, where else could the music have come from? She swallowed, thickly, and glanced into the dark, wanting Athenril to materialize.

Maecenas shook her head; she barely saw. "No," he said. "No, if it were blood magic, only you would see the images. Blood magic is internal. It's controlling what  _you_  see, and not what is around you. What I'm doing - trying to do, it's still very much experimental, like I said - is creating illusions. Taking the light and sound that come from various spells, learning how to take only those elements, and- painting with them."

He shrugged.

"More or less."

"That's not possible," she said, turning to look at him with a frown. "Any sustained spell takes tremendous effort, and to make it only visible without having any sort of effect or feedback-"

"It's tricky, I'll grant you," he said. His small smile grew towards a cat's grin. "But not impossible. Hard to sustain, only has limited uses... but not impossible.

"Do you know," he continued, leaning back as if at ease, though even she could see his nervous tension, "that my colleagues here think it doesn't matter? They say it's uneconomical, that they can do better with a pint of some poor sod's blood."

She blinked. "You don't approve of blood magic?"

"I think a person's life is a little too much to ask for a spell or two," he said with a shrug. " _I_  certainly wouldn't give my life for a spell or two."

"But I thought-" She cut herself off, carefully rearranging her words before she opened her mouth again. "Isn't it a common thought that slaves are worth less than a magister?" Bethany's gaze drifted to the shadows and the living, breathing people she knew waited there.

Maecenas shrugged.

"Sure," he said. "But you know, people don't breed very quickly. It's not like chickens, or rats. And what do you do with the power once you have it? Extending your life is pretty attractive, but beyond that- it's parlor tricks, honestly. Most of them. It's either parlor tricks, or enhanced perception, or attempts at godhood. And the occasional attempt at mind control."

" _Occasional attempt_."

He chuckled. "I'm sure that's all they ever tell you about out there. It's a crude method of getting things done. People have other ways. At any rate - I'm not advocating a  _replacement_  of blood magic. This has different applications. Different limitations. I can't extend my life, but I  _can_  entertain, or drop somebody into a setting where they feel more comfortable. Or less uncomfortable, I suppose." He shrugged and refilled his wine cup. "But," he added, "they don't care. I can share a dream without needing a somniari and without facing a wandering demon or two. And I'm not  _so_  egotistical that I can't admit that there might be other things you could do with it that I'm not thinking of."

Bethany looked down at her empty cup, trying to process it all and come up with a halfway decent response. "I... it's impressive," she said at last. "It's very pretty. You have a good eye." A glance up showed a smiling Maecenas, but he was still expectant, waiting. "The other magisters are silly to just ignore it," she tried.

He leaned back, mollified.

"While you're here," he said, rolling his cup between his hands, "people are going to try to lure you away from me, especially once they find out how talented you are. But you're staying here. Not forever, of course, but having a student... would give me some legitimacy."

"So that's why you agreed. Because I'm new, and unattached, and- sympathetic?"

"Aren't you?"

She looked between him and the lyrium dish. Her father had always warned her about it, nearly as much as he'd warned her about demons and blood magic and templars and all the other dangers she'd need to learn a way around. It had been couched in funny stories and fables, of course, the better not to scare a little girl, but she remembered the message all the same. Lyrium was dangerous. Rely on it for too long, and going without it could be death. She remembered that poor ex-templar wandering Lowtown. She didn't want to be like that.

But she also wouldn't be staying long.

"I'm sympathetic," she said at last. "But can we start small?"

Maecenas grinned, leaning forward to fill her cup before she could protest.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Cold water splattered against her forehead and Bethany jerked awake, yelping and tangling herself up in the sheets as she tried to get away. Athenril stood at the head of her bed, dripping rag in hand.

"Did you have to do that?" Bethany asked, shoving aside the all-too-painful memories of Carver and Marian pulling the same trick. It was what eventually pushed her to wake up long before the both of them. Varric didn't know quite how right his nickname for her was.

Of course, today it was well after dawn going by the slant of shadows across the room.

"You're wanted," Athenril said, grabbing her upper arm and hauling her out of bed. Bethany stumbled as she got her feet under her. Her head ached, along with all her bones in the way that only prolonged casting - usually to save her life or her sister's - did. How late had she been up with Maecenas? He'd taught her how to throw her voice, and there hadn't been any lyrium, but she  _did_  remember another pitcher of wine being brought out-

"He drank more than I did," she protested as Athenril deposited her in front of a wash basin.

"Clean yourself up," Athenril said. "Or I'll send the other girls in to do it for you. Or Ivarius."

Still blinking sleep out of her eyes, she scrubbed her face and ran her damp hands through her hair. He would just have to accept the tousled Lothering farmgirl hairstyle, if he wanted her immediately. She let Athenril tug her sleeping shirt up over her head and start pouring her into the blue dress from Cumberland. At least it wasn't another robe, and at least she was too unsteady to think too much about Athenril's quick fingers dancing over her bare skin.

Was this what Tevinter did to people? Make them just not care anymore, except when things were rather nice? (Athenril tugging the laces on her gown wasn't very nice, though.)

"Apparently, we have a guest for breakfast, though it's really closer to mid-day by now," Athenril briefed her as she circled around her, scanning her with an appraising eye. She went to the small chest at the foot of Bethany's large bed in search of some coordinating decoration. "The entire compound is talking."

"Why, is it somebody important? The Archon? The Black Divine?" she muttered, and was rewarded with an amused snort.

"More important, apparently. Maecenas's sister."

* * *

She was actually his half-sister.

She was also taller than he was by half a head, her skin darker and her black hair wilder, if shorter. She was dressed in a purple jacket that bared her stomach, with wide sleeves and iridescent feathers at her shoulders. Her skirt was heavy and covered in bands and hanging charms.

And she was one of the great admirals of the Tevinter navy.

"You may call me Maelora," she said as Bethany straightened from her awkward curtsey. Her words weren't half so kind as Maecenas's, more distant and perhaps a little haughty, but Bethany couldn't blame the woman. She was larger than life, a statue come alive. She had all of Aveline's intensity and strength, covered over with Isabela's curves and charm, tied together with something altogether very-  _Tevinter_. That was the only word Bethany could come up with.

Only in Tevinter would a woman who could close the door to their little meeting room with a wave of her hand and a gust of air  _decide_  that she would prefer a life on the sea.

 _Magic is so normal here_ , Bethany thought as she sat (in a chair, at a normal table, at what she assumed was either Maelora's insistence or expectation),  _that you can simply_ ** _choose_** _not to be a mage. It doesn't matter. You don't have to run, and if you don't want to do anything with it at all, you can just ignore it._

It was beyond anything she could have ever imagined.

 _I could have been a normal girl here_.

Granted, she would have been a normal girl surrounded by slavery and corruption and war with the qunari, but it was an enticing dream on the surface.

She did her best to keep her chair seated firmly on the ground, sipping at spiced honey water and listening as Maecenas made jokes and Maelora responded calmly. Her head still ached, but it was dissipating quickly.

"So, brother," Maelora said as she turned her appraising gaze once more to Bethany. "How are you finding hosting a southern barbarian?"

Bethany's jaw dropped before she could manage herself; Maelora let out a low, rich laugh.

"Get used to it, girl. You're going to be getting jars of kaddis as gifts soon enough, or maybe some bones to string into a necklace."

"They don't  _really_  think that Ferelden's like that-"

Maecenas shrugged. "Some do. Some just want to see you squirm." He pushed a steaming cup of floral tea towards her. "Anyway,  _sister_ , I'm finding it quite nice."

"Does she like your parlor tricks, then?" Maelora

"They're very nice," Bethany said, peering over the top of her cup. "He's very good at them."

Their host waved a dismissive hand. "You'll pick them up soon enough."

"So she's  _studying_  them. How did you convince her so quickly?"

 _By effectively holding me hostage_ , she thought, covering her momentary grimace with a large sip of tea. It was delicate and vaguely sweet, nothing like the tea in Kirkwall and certainly not like the bitter stuff that found its way to Lothering. She set the cup down on the table, staring at it.

There was a rustle of fabrics as Maelora leaned closer. "From Seheron. Qunari-made, actually. Do you like it?"

"Qunari tea?" she asked, and tried to picture the Arishok drinking from a delicate porcelain confection like the one in front of her.

"Surprisingly gentle, hm?" Maelora smirked. "Hard to get, too. My brother gets the majority of it."

"And I am always grateful for your love and generosity," Maecenas said, watching the two of them. "Which I've been passing on to Bethany here - is it any surprise she's agreed to be my pupil?"

Bethany turned her questioning gaze to Maecenas.

"Not all magisters have the access to spices that I do," he suggested, lightly.

 _Oh_.

Maelora had sat back once more, running a hand over the cascade of gold and pearl around her throat. "One of the benefits of a war," she said, reaching for a quartered orange, "is that a bit of uncertainty is expected when it comes to the continuation of trade." The bangles around her wrists jangled faintly as she began to free a section of fruit. "When the war is won, the various routes will be recorded and updated, amounts will be expected, prices will be set. You see?"

"More Tevinter politics," Bethany said, and Maecenas laughed.

"Very little here isn't. The trick is to find a spot for yourself where the risks are few and the benefits are exactly what you want. It helps to have some humility."

"Yes," Maelora said, dryly. "Aiming for godhood usually doesn't end well, unless you're a very, very rich man. And even then, our 'gods' can be surprisingly short lived."

Bethany accepted the small tart that Maecenas pushed towards her. "Do you not like politics?"

"I like the ocean more."

"The only time I was on the ocean was on my way from Gwaren to Amaranthine, before we crossed the Waking Sea. It wasn't very nice."

Maelora suckled on the orange slice, then ate it in two quick bites. "That's the south sea. Even in summer, it's a nasty place, from what I understand. Up here, it's only the worst winters you have to watch out for. The rest of the year-"

"Why don't you take her out along the coast?" Maecenas suggested, even as he pointedly looked at Bethany's uneaten tart. She hurriedly took a bite.

Maelora lifted one finely manicured brow. "My ship is not a pleasure yacht, dear brother."

He arched a brow in return. "And yet there was that one time, with that Antivan-bred  _magistra_ -"

Her bland expression broke into a smile, and Bethany's shoulders relaxed. She quickly swallowed down the rest of her pastry.

"You don't have to," she said after washing it down with another sip of tea. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, no, now I've been challenged," Maelora said, and her smile broadened, eyes narrowing to contented - or thoughtful - slits. "When the first refits are over with. It shouldn't be too long - we avoided tangling with any dreadnoughts this last tour."

 _Qunari dreadnoughts_ -

Her quailing thoughts were interrupted by the quick pad of feet across the floor of the room. A slave approached, an elven boy with ruddy hair, his back bent nearly double in humility. He held something before him, and came quickly to Maecenas's chair, dropping down to his knees with his head still bowed. He never once looked up.

" _Dominus_ ," the young boy said, proffering an envelope on his open palms. "Lord Magister Priensis sends his warmest regards."

"Marcus?" Maecenas said, bemused. "Haven't heard from him in months. I wonder-"

He took the envelope and slipped his finger under what looked like an ornate wax seal. It popped open with a powerful wave of scent.

"That would be Marcus," Maelora said, grimacing as her brother opened the parchment.

Bethany cleared her throat. "Who is this?"

"An old associate," Maelora said. "Climbed faster than Maecenas, then stalled, then fell, and is apparently now crawling his way back up rung by rung. The last I heard, he was in Seheron being used as very expensive cannon fodder."

"Cannon fodder?"

"We give social climbers the option of a three to five year stint on the island. Helps us maintain a believable living presence there, beyond the military. They get a stipend and a seat in the lower Senate when they return." She shrugged, then looked over to Maecenas. "Well? Was that his death letter?"

"No," Maecenas said, tapping the parchment and looking up at the both of them. "He's home. And he's throwing a party at the end of the week."

* * *

"I finally got word from our contact," Athenril said, dropping from the decorated wall with barely a sound as Bethany made her way back to their compound.

"That's a bit risky, you know," Bethany said, jerking her chin upwards. "People are going to think I'm sending you spying."

Athenril chuckled. "Let them think that, if they catch me. Better than the truth."

It was Bethany who turned first, leading the way back through their small interlocking courtyards. "Well?"

"I'll get the details during your little fete," she said, "which, of course, you'll be attending. So I hope you can keep everybody suitably entertained, or so bored with you that they take absolutely no notice of where your bodyguard has gone off to."

"I can always give you the night free," she said, then winced and quickly added, "nominally, that is. I can tell people I did that." An afternoon spent with a magister and his sister was quickly changing her ideas of what was normal, and she forced her way back to herself.

Athenril waved away her offered niceties as they slipped through the maze-like screens that covered the back entrance to the bed chambers. Soon enough they were below their roof. "Ivarius will be staying with you. And I want you to keep an eye on him."

Bethany stopped, frowning. "Keep an eye on- I'm not going to let them sacrifice him, or anything!"

"I should hope not." Athenril stopped as well, crossing her wiry arms over her chest. "Just make sure he doesn't do anything foolish."

 _Oh, yes, Ivarius seems quite the fool_ , Bethany thought with her frown growing more into a pout.  _The most dour, serious fool I've ever met_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter has a lot of examples as to why slavery is horrific. There's a lot of senseless cruelty, violence, and death coming up. While there's no definite sexualized violence, there are sentences that can be read as such.

"Here we go." Maecenas glowed with pleasure as he stepped back, his full lips stretched wide over gleaming, carefully polished teeth. "Perfect."

"You didn't have to," Bethany said, fighting the urge to fidget.

"You keep saying that," Maecenas said, shaking his head. "How long is it going to take me to break you of it? Dirty little habit, that, turning aside my offers. No, I don't have to, but I certainly want to. Besides," he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder, guiding her to turn around towards the ceiling-length polished glass behind her, "I wouldn't look half so good in it."

It was more a piece of architecture than a dress, all hard lines and stark contrasts. Black and white really weren't her colors, or had never seemed like hers, but the creature staring back at her with looked, if not at home, then on glorious holiday.

She credited his servants' skills with paints more than her own bearing. Maker, but the woman he'd sculpted her into was something otherworldly. The swinging skirt appeared totally black until a step or a cant of her hips revealed the brilliant white pleats inside. Her arms, similarly sheathed in matte jet-dark fabric down to nearly her last knuckles, disappeared against the bodice of her dress, while a pattern of white and black interlaced fabric hung from her shoulders in mock sleeves, sweeping behind her to join at the small of her back. He'd had them put a powder in her hair, too, that dampened any shine and blotted out any traces of brown, and that impenetrable darkness had been pulled tight, wound and tucked until nothing floated free. Her skin had been paled. Her lips were done in some dark plum color, while her eyes were ringed with a brilliant, glimmering red and gold, the only real hint of color allowed to her.

"You really do like to put on a show, don't you," she said, flinching at the unnatural sight of her transformed face moving.

"It's certainly what I do best," he said, and she flinched as his hands came to rest on her hips. He leaned in, looking at her reflection. "Besides, if I'm introducing you-"

"But wouldn't it be better," she interjected, "to introduce me in- increments? Instead of throwing me in everybody's face? I can't even speak Tevene yet! Not," she added as his expression hardened, "that I don't appreciate the- work that you've put into this, and if you commissioned the gown for me, I- I wish you hadn't, but I'll accept it as the lovely gift it is, but-"

"Your servant humbly suggests that you stop speaking," Athenril's voice interrupted, and Bethany's protests died on her lips. Beneath her powders and paints, she flushed with brilliant heat. When had she gotten here?

"I have to say that I agree with your guardian," Maecenas said with a comforting - or warning - pat on her hip. At last he drew away, and her shoulders sagged in relief. "I'm giving you many gifts, Bethany. Your role here is to accept them, and to trust that as the giver, I want only the best for you."

That's a lie, she thought. You told me yourself you want a status symbol.

"As a guest, you should accept without protest," he continued.

"That's- not how I was raised," she rasped.

She finally caught sight of Athenril in the glass, kneeling some distance behind them both. She watched as Maecenas looked to her. Oh no, she thought. He knows there's something wrong. He knows-

"You. You know your mistress better than I do. You explain this, since I'm clearly not making sense."

Athenril bristled. Any other magister and that would have been an undeniable threat - here, it was just a probability. She canted her head in thought, and Bethany watched and tried not to bite at her lip.

"Your servant humbly suggests," she said at last, with the barest flick of her gaze up to Bethany's in the mirror, "that, if it leads to better understanding, to think of our Lord Magister as not only a host but a patron. Or, perhaps, a master to an apprentice."

Bethany took a deep breath. Right - she would just be a student in more than the occult. Apparently, fashion was to be a part of her education as well.

For just a moment, she wondered if maybe the Circle would have been better.

Maecenas smiled and spread his hands in forgiveness. "Well put. Now," he said, with a gesture that had the other slaves in the room rising to their feet, "we have half a city to cross."

He turned with a sweep of his own heavy robes, made of velvet with seemingly ever-shifting patterns edged in what might even have been lyrium thread. She tried to focus on that detail; they were both symbols of opulence, even if he was less of a show in and of himself. She let Athenril come to her side and ease her away from the glass.

"My mistress," Athenril said, voice pitched low, "should stop arguing."

"Aren't we supposed to be fairly low-profile?" Bethany asked, barely a whisper.

Athenril closed her eyes in what had to be a polite-for-public-viewing scowl. "Do what you want," she said at last. "But my advice is to think of him as your-"

"Patron, I get it."

She smirked, looking up at her again. "And patrons like their courtesans to follow their every whim, don't they?"

Bethany's face went as pale as the paint covering it.

Why couldn't Athenril keep herself to comforting words?

She wasn't sure it would have done much good - a room full of magisters and slaves and a language she couldn't easily follow was too unsettling to be covered over by kind words. But that word courtesan kept echoing through her head, and she found it harder than normal to summon up smiles, or anything more than a chilled blankness. Luckily, it seemed to complete the effect of Maecenas's paints; she received more approving nods and smiles than she knew what to do with.

Courtesan. Maecenas's hand was on her hip even now. He'd never given her the idea that he was anything more than a very eccentric, very kind, perhaps rather clingy man, or that he expected anything but company from her. That's what he said, hadn't he? Company. Of course, that word could take on all sorts of meaning, too. And if the moment came, would Athenril expect her to let him lead her to his bedroom (or worse, pull her down on one of his low couches or pillow-strewn floors in front of everybody)?

Her eyes sought Athenril and Ivarius in the crowd. Maybe it had just been a joke. If she could only ask-

"So this is your southern beauty."

She turned her head to see an older man in heavy, almost dull robes. His hair and beard were grey all the way through, his eyes heavily-lidded. Something about his posture set her teeth on edge. Maecenas stiffened at her side as she bowed her head and curtseyed, hands over her hip.

"Magister Danarius," Maecenas said, and a quick glance showed that he had his head bowed, his arms splayed just a little in offering. "Allow me to introduce Mistress Bethany of Ferelden, my guest and student."

"Student." The magister rolled the word around his mouth like some exotic confection, his eyes never leaving her. She fought the urge to turn away or cover herself. His name was familiar, tugging at fragments of memory, and her inability to pin it down stoked her growing unease. There was something important about Danarius. Had Ivarius said something? Maelora?

"I didn't know that you would be here, magister," Maecenas said, fighting to fill the silence. Danarius's gaze only left her for a second. "If I had known-"

"You wouldn't be prancing around trying to promote your personal style of idiocy?"

Maecenas was speaking the trade tongue for her benefit. She didn't miss the significance of Danarius choosing to as well, not while he looked her up and down. His eyes were cold, his face nearly expressionless except for a brief flicker of distaste whenever Maecenas spoke, and what might have been smug, perverse pleasure when he had silence enough to watch her.

She felt like a cow on display at the market.

Maecenas licked his lips, hand tensing on her hip. And then his hand fell away, and he bowed lower to Danarius with a smile. "Just so, magister," he said, and if she hadn't spent several days cooped up with him, she would have almost believed his good humor.

Danarius nodded, acknowledging his deference, then held out a hand to her. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'm going to borrow your acolyte for a few minutes."

No. Say you mind.

"Of course, magister." Maecenas still hadn't straightened, his smile fixed and unmoving.

"I feel like a cow on display at the market," Bethany blurted, and was rewarded with Danarius and Maecenas both stopping their posturing. Danarius looked- confused. Maecenas's smile turned genuine.

"Very southern beauty," Danarius said at last.

"It's certainly part of her charm."

She looked between the two magisters, hoping that her little country outburst would put her firmly outside of Danarius's interests. Instead, Danarius crooked his fingers, and with an inward grimace she took his hand.

"I'll return her in good time," Danarius said, and then with a firm hold that wasn't quite a tug, he led her into the crowd. Maecenas bowed again, not straightening for as long as she could still see him.

Athenril, where in the Void are you? She needed some sort of diversion. Ivarius would be useful, if he hadn't already positioned himself near the flow of wine, but Athenril- Athenril could maybe pull her away. Somehow. Danarius's hand was perfectly smooth and cool, but she couldn't help imagining a film of oil or blood coating his skin. He moved with certainty and purpose, drawing her towards the middle of the great ballroom.

"Your host," he said as they came to stand facing the inlaid circle in the exact center of the floor, "has casually let slip all manner of things about your ability."

"A play for status," she said, trying to keep any trembling out of her voice.

He didn't deign to turn wholly towards her, instead watching her from the corner of one eye, chin lifted in the idea of her direction. "Good, you're not entirely out of your depths."

"I'm not out of my depths at all." She hoped she sounded as brave and confident as Marian.

He laughed, and her pseudo-confidence began to shrink away once more. "So you want to be his student, then, living on in obscurity at best? Otherwise, you shouldn't rely on only his whisperings."

"You approached me," she said, slowly, returning the light pressure of his hand. "I'm gaining some attention the way things are, and I don't think I'd like more just now. There are... nuances I'm still learning."

"And if I said that the only reason we're speaking now is so that I can prick at your host's pride, and I have no interest in you otherwise?"

"Then that is my current lot, and I will change it when I see fit." She called on all of her Amell poise, thinking of her mother. "I am not mindlessly scraping for recognition, ma- domine. I have goals and principles of my own."

"And does your host know that?" Slowly, he shifted to tuck her hand in the crook of his elbow, forcing her to come closer.

"He knows that I am uninterested in blood magic. It's been a source of bonding."

"Chantry-bred fear," Danarius mused, and instead of the loss of interest Bethany had been hoping for, his smile grew from barely-there to definite and amused. "Or a lack of ambition."

"Perhaps both," Bethany pointed out, words clipped. "Along with a healthy dose of intelligence and caution. My father-" He canted his head, brows lifting as she cut herself off. Bethany swallowed and looked straight ahead. "My father showed me that blood magic is unnecessary to be a strong- mage." Person.

She waited for him to speak, to question who exactly her father had been, what he had accomplished, or simply to dismiss all of it. She heard his robes shift, his arm moving beneath her hand.

When he spoke at last, it was only to say, "Watch."

She frowned, but before she could question him or protest or even take her hand from his arm, she heard it: the shuffle of bare feet on polished stone, of ten people, twenty, maybe more. Not all of it had the same cadence - some were lighter steps, coming gladly, while other dragged and fought. When they came to the cleared center of the room, though, they were all immediately recognizable: slaves, likely Marcus's, all dressed in simple shifts and delicate gold collars. There were humans and elves, men and women, children from five years to near adulthood, all with their hair cropped short or pulled back.

Bethany backed away, eyes darting from face to face, looking for Ivarius's. Athenril's. Neither was there, but it didn't matter - she wanted out. As she tried to turn, Danarius clamped a hand over hers, holding her fast, and she jerked, a bird captured in a biting net.

"Watch," he repeated again, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in his voice.

She looked around, frantic for any sign of Maecenas. The room was a swirling cacophony of silks of a thousand colors, gold and silver and copper, skin and brilliantly dyed hair. Other slaves without those fine metal collars slipped in and out of the crowd bearing platters laden with wine and fruits. Danarius plucked a cup from one as a young boy passed by and held it to her lips.

"Drink."

Where was the tickle of blood magic, taking all her self-control away, all her culpability, her guilt? It would have been easier, less horrifying, if he held her fast by his own power. Instead, fear made her part her lips and close her eyes, hoping desperately that if she only obeyed, he would relax just enough to let her escape.

The wine that flooded her mouth was thick and sweet, as fine as any she'd had from Maecenas, and it tangled around her tongue and coated her throat, slicking a path straight down to her gut. Along its rivulets threaded a snapping, icy flavor, more a sensation than anything else. Her body lept to it, and as it pooled in her belly, she put a name to it:

Lyrium.

There was lyrium in the wine.

She closed her mouth and turned away, lifting her free hand to push at the cup. Danarius allowed it, and she heard the distant clink of the glass being set aside, no doubt on some other circulating platter. Her throat worked against the lingering coating of drink, and she took even, numbered breaths through her nose.

Around her, the crowd grew silent. The milling ceased, fabric no longer rustling in eddies around her. A man was speaking - not Danarius, and not Maecenas - and the words that rolled across the room were heavily accented Tevene. She could only pick out a word or phrase every third or fourth sentence: a welcome to his guests, maybe something about the weather, something that had to be a joke even if she didn't understand the references he made. It sounded like poetry, if a very jarring sort, and it became bound up with the tingling rush of warmth throughout her body. She swayed gently on her feet.

She was barely aware when he concluded, saying only, "Sacrificia parentur."

Before Ivarius's lessons could fully click into place, the sound of knees hitting the floor beat out a rhythm in the hushed silence. Her eyes opened, first to slits and then to terrified rounds, just in time to see the slaves in golden collars lift gilded blades in their hands. Some wore genuine, blissful grins; the rest wore thin mockeries, coerced by the blood that splattered tap tap tap from the cut in their host's hand, above them on a balcony overlooking the room. They knelt along the inlaid metal of the floor, and as one, lifted a blade in each hand.

The first slash was to the throat. The second, less than a heartbeat later, was aimed at the inner thigh, their kneeling legs spread wide in anticipation. Half didn't make it that far. One after the other, they cried out or fell silent to the floor, blood spreading in rapidly expanding pools or spraying up in horrible, elegant arcs. Her stomach twisted and her own knees threatened to give way. Danarius held her immobile.

With a groan, almost a howl, the metal beneath their feet began to shudder and move, rings sliding along paths in slowly accelerating patterns. She watched as the blood, now organizing itself into patterns on the stone, lifted the rings up with a grinding screech. The floor itself began to rise, a pillar forming at the center, and spheres of gold took up their posts hovering in orbit around it. Lightning jumped from sphere to sphere while the circling metal rings began to sing.

And beneath all of that beauty, there were the death spasms of slaves now released from their host's control, moaning and whimpering and finally, blessedly, falling silent.

Bethany's knees gave as the blood joined the spinning dance, and this time, Danarius let her fall. There were more bare footsteps. The other slaves? New ones? Maker help her, how many were going to die for- for- for decoration? She dry-heaved as the thought slammed home, fingers scrabbling at the stone. How many had already died? Twenty? Thirty? A new patter of dripping blood joined all the howling noise, and she retched, vomit adding its own note to the mess of it all. More were going to die. More were- were-

A hand landed on her shoulder, tightened, then slid down to her upper arm and hauled her up. She wavered and fell against a warm body. She could make out dark skin, ringed fingers. Maecenas. He was saying something, laughing off some comment or another, then steering her to one of the walls. He turned her so her back was to the tableau behind her, and tears began to streak through the powder caked onto her face.

"Shh," he whispered, and she slammed one slippered foot down where his toes should have been, if he didn't wear those ridiculous shoes that left him hovering above the floor. He didn't respond, except to usher her into a chair, a chair that he spun, too, to look away from the center of the room. He grabbed up an abandoned cup of wine, then reached into the sash around his hips and pulled out a vial.

"I don't want that," she gasped, then shuddered as a scream ripped through the air. It wasn't pain. Maker, it was pleasure, and she didn't want to know what was causing it.

"That's nice," Maecenas said, and she wasn't sure which he was referring to, the ecstatic moans or her refusal. "They're not all like this, you know. This is one of the worse ones. I didn't think- I'm sorry. Here." He tapped out what looked like more lyrium into the cup, then held it to her lips. She turned away.

"Please," he said, and she shook her head. "It will make you not care, for just a little bit. For long enough. I'll get you home safely."

She sobbed and coughed around the phlegm pooling in her throat and nose, drawing her knees up to her chest, perching in her chair with her arms around her legs. "That's not home. I want to go home."

"Please, drink," he repeated again, and this time he reached for one of her hands, uncurling her clenched fingers and placing them around the stem of the glass. "A few sips. You're causing a scene." He glanced behind her.

She didn't care if people were watching. With a broken cry, she flung the cup down, splashing wine and lyrium down Maecenas's front. He grimaced for just a moment, then reached out and cupped her cheeks.

"Look at me," he murmured, and after a moment's scared, petulant refusal, she did. His eyes were wide, seemingly innocent, searching for something in hers. "I would never have invited you here if I thought this would happen. You're my student. I am honor-bound to protect you and serve your best interests. And I'm telling you, the best way to get you out of here is to make people stop noticing you. And the best way to get people to stop noticing you is to find a way to calm down."

He held up the vial. A few drops of silvery-blue liquid clung to the inside.

"Trust me."

Slowly, she parted her lips and stuck out her tongue. The drops - not lyrium, not entirely - danced along it.

"Good girl," Maecenas said, then leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Now get some air, take a few deep breaths, and then come back and smile for maybe half an hour. That's all you need to do. I'll take care of the rest."

By the time she reached the terraced garden, the lyrium mixture was blurring the ballroom lights behind her and the city lights stretched out below. Everything felt fuzzy, from her feet to the leaden apex of her fear. Her stomach churned with bile, and she steadied herself with a hand against one of the railings.

Maecenas's kiss burned like a Tranquil brand at first, then settled into an oddly reassuring throb.

"There you are."

She turned to see Athenril emerge out of the shadows. Where had she been? (The word spices drifted through her mind, followed shortly by contact.) Bethany kept one hand on the railing.

"Did- did everything go well?" she mumbled.

Athenril looked over her shoulder to the hall, pointedly, but she also gave the smallest of nods. "My mistress appears- drunk."

Her placid expression broke at that, and she sagged down, crouching and wrapping her arms around her knees again. "Do you know what happened? In there?"

"I can smell blood," Athenril sighed, bending to take Bethany's elbow and lever her up. Her touch disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I can guess."

"He killed them, Athenril. He killed them. So many of them. And it was all just- just decoration. Just showing off. He-"

"We're in Tevinter." Her gaze was distant.

"That doesn't mean I can watch that! There were children! Children, cutting their throats. I can't... I can't. How can anybody live like this? How-?" She stared at Athenril, pleading and desperate. The smuggler turned away.

All she wanted - all she wanted - was a little bit of comfort, a rock to cling to, because she could still hear the laughter and the screaming and the ecstatic crying, ecstatic only because it was made to be, and she could feel the prickle and slide and pressure of blood magic, not directed at her, but so close, so close-

She whimpered and reached out, catching hold of Athenril's hand. "Don't go," she whispered. "Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Athenril said, and gave her hand a quick pat. "Not without you. But you need to go back in there."

"I can't. I can't. Don't you see? I can't do this. I can't." Her thoughts rolled and tumbled, and she couldn't sort how much of it was panic, how much was the wine, how much was the burbling font of power growing in her gut from those few drops of lyrium. She tightened her grip, ignoring Athenril's frown.

"Please, I want to go home," Bethany whispered.

"Soon," Athenril said, expression softening. Her shoulders sagged with her sigh, and then she pulled Bethany close, tucking the softer woman against her side. "Soon. All you need to do is build a wall. Keep a tiny smile on your lips, keep your chin up, and simply be. They will leave you alone. Running would only make them chase, or wonder, or pick at our story. You're not the center of attention anymore, you don't need to run." Her hand stroked over Bethany's lacquered hair. "It will all be fine."

She and Maecenas could sound so alike.

Gently, Athenril pulled back, enough that she could meet her eyes and give a small, reassuring smile. Bethany twitched as Athenril settled her free hand on her cheek, and swayed into the touch, eyes wide.

"You'll be fine," Athenril said, and there was nothing Bethany could do but lean in to kiss her perfect lips.

She got as far as her nose grazing Athenril's before the elf had her hand between them, pushing against her chest. Bethany let out a low whine of frustration, but Athenril didn't bend.

"Stop, Bethany," she said instead.

"Please don't go," Bethany whispered.

"I'll make you a deal," she said, hand moving up to instead rest over Bethany's lips. Would the paint be smeared? Her thoughts twirled left and then down, around. "I won't go, if you don't try to kiss me again."

"But I want to," she whispered in confession, looking through her lashes for a moment before another wave of shaking took her. She lost her grip on Athenril's hand, but in another instant Athenril had an arm around her shoulders, and was guiding her back towards the din.

"I don't fancy kissing somebody who tastes like vomit," Athenril said, and with a reassuring pat on the shoulder, she sent her back towards Maecenas and all the others.


	9. Chapter 9

She woke late the next morning, head feeling several sizes too small. She could taste only death in her mouth, and she grimaced, rolling over. Maker, if she had tasted even half this awful last night, no wonder Athenril hadn't-

_Oh, Maker._

The last night came back in a confused, muddled rush. The memories were fuzzy and distant, and her thoughts shied away from flashes of blood and shouts and horror. They landed instead on what felt like a much more personal and pressing tragedy, and a safer one to consider.

She'd tried to kiss Athenril. She'd tried to kiss her, then told her outright that she wanted to. How much had she ruined in that moment, that moment that she could barely remember now except for in broad strokes?

There was a small carafe and cup beside her bed, and she leaned down to pour herself some water, fighting how her head spun. Some water, a nice (private) bath, maybe some time to herself out in the garden... maybe then she could get her head on straight, and figure out what to do. Ignoring it seemed the most likely option, from both sides, but maybe there were others.

And the rest of last night...

She gulped down the water, then poured herself another.

If she only had that little glade by the house in Lothering to retreat to, she was certain she could figure this one out. She could sit for a day, plait her hair, be just a girl and not a mage or a refugee or a tool. She could be in a safer place, a more familiar place. There wouldn't be any death, and maybe more and simpler kissing.

With a sigh, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.

There was a knock at her door, and Bethany turned her head. Caecilia entered, head bowed over the small bag she carried before her. The show of deference made her stomach curdle, and again her mind shied away from the night before. She focused instead on the bag. It was made of silk of a single color.

Bethany pushed herself up, unsteadily.

"This servant brings her mistress a gift from Dominus Maecenas," the girl said, then carefully slid down to kneel, arms outstretched. "Dominus Maecenas asks mistress's pardon."

_Maecenas, pardoning me for-_

She remembered wretching, crying, begging to leave.

Well- at least this meant that he wasn't ashamed of her. Or, she supposed, that he was about to kick her out of his home with some artfully chosen insulting gift that she likely wouldn't get the meaning of.

Either was okay.

"Ah- thank you. Tell him that- that I'm fine, and it wasn't his fault." Her smile flickering (it felt so strange to smile when she knew the girl would never look up to see it), she bent to take the bag.

Her fingers found two objects, strangely shaped, and she opened the bag and peered inside while Caecilia retreated and closed the door softly behind her.

She turned back to the bed and carefully upended the bag.  _Shoes_. He'd sent her  _shoes_ , to apologize for whatever exactly had happened the night before. She could still tell it wasn't quite in proportion, mostly because  _she_  wasn't the one that needed apologizing. There had been others-

The shoes were embroidered slippers mounted atop what looked like smoothed cones, with gentle curves and firmed sides. They had square bottoms, and the tip of each cone met the sole of the slipper in its exact center, then flared out to become a hard platform. They were just like Maecenas's, she realized after a moment, and if she wore them with her robes she would seem to float like he did.

If she didn't fall and break an ankle first.

The platform was wood, as far as she could tell, coated with a thick, glossy white paint. The shoes themselves were silk, dark blue with fine embroidery. And they were her size, she discovered as she sat down to slip them on. Either it was later in the morning than she thought, or he'd had these on hand already. Prepared to spoil her? Or just prepared in case of disaster?

Maybe he had another costume already in the works. She certainly wouldn't put it past him. Gingerly, she stood up, and let out a long breath when she didn't topple immediately.

It was very strange, she decided, having all of her weight balanced at the center point of her foot. The platform widened by the time it reached the ground, but what she could  _feel_  was the press of its origin. The sole of the shoe was strong, though, strong enough that her feet didn't bend over the platform posts, and a few experimental steps proved she could walk. Not quickly, not easily, but she could walk.

Somebody cleared their throat, and she looked up to see Athenril waiting in the doorway.

_Oh. Oh, Maker, not right now_. She flushed, toddling back towards her bed so that she could sit and take off her- gifts.

"An admirer?" Athenril asked, strolling into the chamber.

"No. Just Maecenas," she said, not quite looking at her. "Caecilia said he wanted to apologize for last night."

"As he should."

The unexpected sympathy made Bethany look up, staring. "I- don't think he had much control over what happened." Her brow furrowed. As she tried to dredge up the details of the night before, her mind turned away again and again. She remembered the slide of lyrium and something else over her tongue, and Athenril in the garden. She remembered being terrified. But she remembered little else, and she quailed from each glimpse that slipped through whatever wall she'd built. Her fingers caught and slipped against the silk.

Athenril said nothing more, instead crouching by one of the finely carved chests, opening it and sifting through the slowly accumulating mountain of gifts. At the end, would she get to take all of them back to Kirkwall? Would they sell them all? Would she even get a cut?

"Last night," Athenril said at last.

Bethany swallowed, settling her hands in her lap.  _I don't want to talk about it_  nearly passed her lips, to be answered, no doubt, with an  _Okay_. But this was a chance to have an actual conversation. She straightened.

"It was bad," she said.

Athenril grimaced. "I didn't know the particulars when I saw you last night."

Bethany glanced at the space beside her. After a moment's hesitation, Athenril abandoned the trinkets in her hands and came to sit next to her.

"It wouldn't have changed my decision," Athenril added, firmly. "But I was perhaps- overly harsh. At the time."

"Are you apologizing?" Bethany asked, slowly.  _For pushing me away_?

Athenril quirked a brow, again saying nothing. Of course - like so many other people in her life, Athenril wasn't about to do more than suggest an error on her part. Bethany shook her head with a slight smile. "It's-"

"Yes, I'm apologizing."

"Oh."

Athenril leaned back, crossing her legs. "So, why is Maecenas apologizing?"

Bethany looked to the shoes. "I... actually don't really remember the particulars of last night, now. But I think- a lot of things." She frowned and tried to push through the wall. "It was one of his rivals who dragged me off and humiliated me by- making me watch." Her voice trembled, and she had to take a deep breath before continuing, "From the front row." Her expression twisted a moment, before the memory floated off, thankfully too slippery to hold on to.

"You sound almost at peace with that," Athenril said.

She blinked, then frowned, trying to concentrate. "He drugged me afterwards. Maecenas did."

Athenril's fingers closed tight around her wrist. "He  _what_?"

"He was just trying to help me cope-"

"What did he give you? How much? No wonder you-" She cut herself off with a frustrated growl.

_No wonder I tried to kiss you_? She swallowed, squirming. Who would have thought the smuggler would be this protective?

"You don't have tell Marian. I'm fine," she said, taking a guess.

"I don't care about Marian." Athenril let go of her wrist only to take Bethany's face in both calloused, tattooed hands, fixing her while she searched for  _something_  in her face. "Think. What did he give you?"

"I- clear liquid. Could have been a lot of things, I suppose. Athenril-" Her heart was beating double - no, triple - time, despite the hazy aftereffects of the night before.

"It was strong enough that you're acting like a lovestruck child over some  _shoes_  a morning later. Think."

"There was... there was some lyrium, and something else," she sighed, squirming again. Athenril didn't let her go. "I felt woozy. Everything that happened is a bit of a blur, really. I can't hold on to the images. I slept well, even if I woke up feeling like death. But I'm  _fine_  now, isn't that enough?"

Athenril's frown didn't ease, even as she leaned closer. It did, however, transform to something decidedly more intimate, private and pained and worried. Her gaze dropped to Bethany's lips, and Bethany's heart reached quintuple time. She leaned forward, hands rising to Athenril's elbows.

_She cares about me. She cares about me, it's not_ ** _all_** _just business, she_ -

Athenril pulled away, shaking her head.

"You're  _not_  fine," she said as she stood up. "You're going to eat breakfast, in here, with enough water that you feel sick, and you're not going to respond to any summons from Maecenas until the sun begins to set. Do you understand?"

Bethany's cheeks burned. "Just because I wanted-"

Athenril's gaze turned chill. Bethany knotted her hands in her lap.

"I'll stay in," she said. "But that wasn't- wasn't the lyrium."

_Be brave, girl_.

Athenril looked her over, then heaved a sigh and made for the door. "I'll have them draw you a cold bath. And tonight we'll talk about the job."

* * *

Bethany followed Athenril's instructions to the letter, despite a growing urge to just  _catch_  the thief and tell her, plainly, that she'd wanted to kiss her long before Maecenas's medicine. Where her sudden boldness arose from, Bethany couldn't quite pinpoint, but several months of low-level frustration and confusion combined with having taken a first step- well, that added up, didn't it?

Or perhaps being so close to that wretched ritual, which she could still only remember in thankfully brief snippets, had given her a clarity of thought uninterrupted by any lingering drug haze.

Or maybe she just wanted to be in control of  _something_.

The day was long, and her thoughts curled and twisted on themselves. There were no resolutions to be found. When she thought too hard on the events of the night before, she could pick out more details, but they only made her turn away from the memories and look for a pot to heave into. As the day wore on, she thought about it less and less. Guilt replaced horror. She could afford not to think about it. What about Athenril? What about  _Ivarius_?

The horror was back, and she called for Aurelia, asked after the man.

_Drinking_ , she was told.  _Sleeping_.  _Do you want him_?

It must have been horrifying, if he'd been anywhere near the room. Was Athenril taking care of him? She didn't know, and could hardly ask Aurelia. And so she had only shaken her head and told her to send another bottle to him, if he wanted it.

As the sky darkened, Bethany drew herself up, tied on her new shoes, and let herself be dressed in her blue gown from Cumberland. It was an odd match, but she took herself out of her compound and towards Maecenas's usual dining platform with her head held high, and no summons in her hand. A chance glimpse of one of the cooks steered her towards the gardens where she'd first met with Maecenas instead, and she arrived just as the first cups of wine were being poured.

"Ah, there you are," Maecenas said, smiling. That smile broadened when he heard the tell-tale clopping of her lacquered shoes against the stone tiling. "I'd given up hope of seeing you today. Are you... recovered, then?"

Maelora, sitting nearby, gestured to the open klinae. Bethany settled herself gratefully - she'd nearly twisted her ankle twice on the walk over.

"Yes, I think so," she said, smoothing out her skirt. "Thank you for your generous gift, Maecenas."

"It was Maelora's idea," he said, then chuckled at his sister's snort. "Well, sending you something was. She would have sent more wine, I think."

"Something that would have actually assisted your recovery, yes," she said, plucking a honey-drizzled fruit from a platter and leaning back. "I've heard bits and pieces of what happened from all sides today. Nasty little trick of Danarius's. Though that reminds me, brother-"

He waved a hand, smile faltering as he reached into the sash of his robe. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "You've received a letter from Danarius," Maecenas said, grimacing and throwing it onto the table between them. "My condolences."

"Oh," Bethany said.

"It came early this morning, before even I was awake. Smug bastard."

"Have you read it?" she asked, hesitantly reaching out to pick up the missive.

"Yes," he said, and she thanked the Maker for at least that bit of honesty. He'd even had the decency not to reseal the wax. She opened it with just a nudge at the seal made tacky by the humid heat, and scanned over the content.

It was in Tevene. Of course.

Her reading was far less practiced than her speaking, but at least it was in the same alphabet she was used to. She muddled through. Insincere regrets for having confronted her with something she was 'not ready for', unasked for advice, a warning not to let herself be used as a public art piece by a lesser man.

She set it down, frowning. "I still don't understand why he even decided to talk to me last night. It's not like he has any respect for me."

Maelora snorted. "No, he most certainly doesn't."

"Think of it this way," Maecenas said, taking up the letter again. Flames began to curl at its far edge. "If somebody were to actually try to court you as an apprentice, it would lend me a fair bit of clout. I found you, after all. And if I  _don't_  let them take you away - if you choose not to go - that makes me look better, too. But if nobody takes an interest in the provincial girl who throws up at the sight of blood-"

"It wasn't  _just_  blood," she murmured, dropping her gaze to hide her horror.

"- then I clearly have no sense in selecting apprentices. The only one I can get for myself is a little Fereldan girl who could never make it as a magister. So take heart," he said, grimacing. "Danarius has no interest in you, except as a tool to destroy what little social standing I have. He'll get bored soon enough, if he isn't already."

Bethany watched Macenas let go of the parchment, allowing its last few inches to float up in the air and crumble to glowing ash. "If you ask me, it sounds like he feels threatened by you."

"It took him all of ten minutes and little effort to do what he did last night. This letter?" He tapped the parchment. "Five minutes. Fifteen minutes out of his life, and an annoyance is swept aside. I'll never be  _direct_  competition to him. But he has sycophants and those sycophants have sycophants and- well, who says that he doesn't get something nice in return for damaging my reputation?" Maecenas shrugged. "Besides, there's always the chance that Maelora will become a war hero, which would catapult me to near his level by association."

Bethany looked over to Maelora, who was sipping at her wine and watching them both. "Is it a good chance?" she ventured.

"A better chance than luck alone," Maelora said. "I am being assigned to the right places - no certain-death missions to try to think around."

"And she's very good at her job," Maecenas said, every inch the proud sibling. A sharp pang of longing shot through her.

Maelora waved a hand. "There are those better, and those worse."

"That doesn't seem like a very Tevinter way of looking at things," Bethany said, canting her head. She glanced to the entrance to the small sitting garden at a light sound, and saw Athenril slip in, slowly circling to take up her usual spot.

Maelora and Maecenas, when she looked to them again, were both laughing into their cups.

"And that was a very not-Bethany thing for you to say, and to say it so easily," Maelora said. "You must be getting a bit bolder, while I'm being tempered."

"A good match!" Maecenas crowed, raising his cup.

Bethany shook her head in a silent laugh, but raised hers as well.

"To the three of us against stagnation?" Maecenas suggested.

" _Gaudeve omnes_ ," Maelora said. " _Nunc est bibendum!†_ "

Whatever awkwardness and fear had been following attendant on her every move in Tevinter seemed to disappear for at least the touch of cup to lip, and even Athenril's arched brow of question didn't catch her. The tension in her uncoiled, and as she set her cup down, she relaxed against her cushions. Catching sight of a speck of ash on the brocaded fabric, she ground it into nothing with the pad of her thumb.

"I think," Maelora said, "that your guest, brother, is looking a little less pale these days."

He glanced over to her as more substantial plates of food were brought out.  _Dormice_ , Bethany noted. She wasn't quite  _that_  bold yet.

"I think you may be right," Maecenas said at last, tapping his fingers against his knee. "But these high walls can't be doing her much good. Bethany, what would you say about a day on the sea?"

Memories of weeks below deck on the Waking Sea made her queasy for just a moment. "Above deck, surely?"

Maecenas glanced to his sister. "That can be arranged, yes?"

"I think it can be. My flagship is still in drydock at the moment, but I think the _Lusacan_  can take us out."

"I've never been on a warship," Bethany said, stealing a glance at Athenril. The elf remained impassive.

"Something to rectify, if you'll be staying in Tevinter. Even a tour is a good thing to have tucked into your belt." Maecenas looked every inch the pleased feline, slit-eyed and content. "Besides - sometimes Minrathous can get a bit... claustrophobic."

* * *

"Could you find out exactly who was-  _involved_  last night?" Bethany asked on the walk back to her room.

Athenril grunted. "Difficult, and I don't see the benefit."

"I'd like to give their families money," she said, with all the conviction she could muster. "And Ivarius, is he okay? I think-"

"You can't fix what happened," Athenril interrupted. "Money to the families would reach their master's ears, and it might hurt them more, in the long run. And besides, it's not our responsibility." She shrugged, then. "And Ivarius can take care of himself, and from what I understand he left the room when he realized what was happening."

Bethany scowled, but left it at that, walking more quickly along the path. She'd been so sure she could do  _something_ , be attentive in some way. It would have helped the guilt she still felt at how easily she could build her walls.

She pulled open her chamber doors before anybody could do it for her.

"I can't protect you against a qunari dreadnought," Athenril said the moment the doors were closed and they were halfway to Bethany's bedchamber.

Bethany's scowl deepened.

"Yes, well, I think a Tevinter admiral can do a good job at that. If it's needed." Bethany sat down heavily, sliding her slippers off.

"I just want you to be aware," Athenril said, voice tight. "And how long will this trip be? I would appreciate knowing how long I have to put our plans on hold."

"I doubt more than a day," she said, though truly she had no idea. "At least, it didn't seem like a long trip. I doubt it will be a month." Could it be a month? No, Maelora had things to attend to here, as did Maecenas.

She glanced up to see Athenril grimacing. "Even a day-"

"Are things moving that quickly now?"

"Well, I have actually spoken face to face with either our contact or our contact's appearance," Athenril said, leaving off her pacing. "A woman, golden-skinned with dark hair worn braided at the nape of her neck, in case you ever chance to see her. She is quite pleased with how well you've worked your way into our host's household, so on that front, at least, we are prepared."

She could almost  _see_  the curls of heated anger coiling from the smuggler. She was tightly wound and hard-edged. The last time she'd seen her like this- well, Marian had taken no chances in running into her again for the next month.

"You're angry," Bethany said.

"No," Athenril said, perhaps a hair too harshly. She caught herself, taking a deep breath, but didn't offer a correction.

"Nervous, then. Are you afraid?"

This morning, Athenril had been nervous, worried - apologetic. Less than a day had passed. Was this all because of her foolish attempt at a kiss? Her more pointed justification?

Bethany's scowl faded and she worried at her lower lip instead.

"Nervous is more accurate," Athenril said at last, stiff and uncomfortable. "We've... reached the part of the job where things inevitably become more complicated. It's one thing to expect it. It's another to become comfortable with it. I worry..."

Bethany rose to her bare feet and came closer, though  _closer_  now meant a few feet further away than before her ill-fated attempts at intimacy.

Athenril glanced at her face, then looked down. "I worry that your cover will get out of hand. That it will consume you. Did you hear yourself just now, ordering that I send  _money_  to last night's victims? What money?  _Think_."

"It seemed appropriate. And I'm not planning on staying, if that's what you're thinking," Bethany assured her, fighting the urge to reach out a hand and rest it on her shoulder.

"That's not quite it." Athenril's lips pursed. "I am worried that... this job will change you."

Bethany took a deep breath, thinking. Athenril's concern for her was spilling over, where before it had barely seemed to exist. Had it been well-hidden? Had last night's drama brought something - mortality, perhaps, or innocence and vulnerability - into sharp relief?

"I'd have thought you would like a hardened business associate better than an untried, naive one," she said.

Athenril looked up sharply, and her glare struck Bethany. "I chose you for this job for a reason, and it wasn't to make you into an uncaring, callous-"

"It won't go  _that_  far!" Bethany said, scowling. "Last night- last night should be proof of that- And just now, you just  _said_ -"

"- or flighty or overly caught up in the romance of the job instead of keeping your head on straight."

Bethany was quiet for a moment, then cleared her throat. "The romance of the  _job_  is a lot of food and drink and lyrium."

"And power. And hedonism."

_The kiss_.

"I'm not going to talk about this if you're not going to listen. I... I don't want to talk about this." Her cheeks were heating. "Especially not when every time I've questioned the job, or told you that I'm afraid, you have been excusing or encouraging everything."

"I can't predict your behaviors anymore, Bethany Hawke." Her voice was tight, terse, and Bethany flinched. "Can you see why that's worrying?"

"It's worrying that I'm a human being instead of a play actor?"

"For as far as we go together,  _yes_ , it is."

Bethany turned away, aching from the blow.  _Right. I misinterpreted_.  _We move on_. "Send Caecilia in to help me undress for bed, then. And I will do my best to restrain my humanity around you in the future."

Athenril didn't make a sound as she left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † " _Gaudeve omnes. Nunc est bibendum!_ " - Be glad, everyone! Now it's time to drink!


End file.
